


A Life Less Ordinary

by elrhiarhodan



Series: An Ordinary Life [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Violence, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Multi, OT3, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Polyamory Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, Neal Caffrey is not the world’s greatest con artist, forger and thief. He’s a veterinarian. Peter Burke may still be the world’s greatest FBI agent, but his career in on hold. He was shot, point blank, six times and his recovery has been slow – but aided in part by the yellow Lab he and Elizabeth have adopted.</p>
<p>Peter and Elizabeth have a very special marriage – they have, on many occasions, let others into their life and their bed. But during Peter’s recovery, it’s been just the two of them. </p>
<p>Neal and Peter meet, the attraction is instant, and it’s the same when Elizabeth and Neal meet, too. While the Burkes want to make Neal part of their lives, Neal has a past, one that still has the power to hurt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Less Ordinary

“You’re sure you’re feeling up to this, hon? Yvonne can take my three o’clock appointment.”  
  
“No – this is an important client for you; you’ve been prepping for the meeting for over a week. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just taking Satchmo to the vet, not running the New York Marathon.” Peter looked down at the six-month old puppy chewing on his sneakers.  
  
“I know, but …”  
  
“But nothing, El. The doctors said I’ve made terrific progress. I think I can walk the three and a half blocks to Dr. Parker’ office. Sit and wait an hour, read a two-year old copy of National Geographic, and then walk home.”   
  
Elizabeth sighed.  
  
“Don’t sigh at me. I’m fine. _I will be fine_.” Peter wanted to erase that look of skeptical concern off her face. The past year had been rough, too rough for both of them. But things were on the upswing now, and like he said, he was going to be just fine.  
  
He hoped.  
  
“I worry. I’m your wife, and after everything you’ve been through, I’m allowed to worry.”  
  
“El, please.” He needed to do this; he needed to be able to get his life back.  
  
She kissed him; it was light and sweet, a gift of affection. “Okay. Just call me when you get home.”  
  
“I’ll text – I don’t want to interrupt your day.”  
  
“No – call me. I want to hear your voice.”   
  
Peter knew he didn’t dare disobey – not for something this trivial. “Okay, hon.” El gave him another kiss, grabbed her purse and a stylish briefcase filled with samples and brochures and left.   
  
The house was unbearably quiet in the wake of his wife’s departure. Peter looked down at the puppy, still worrying at his shoes. “Do those taste good?” The dog looked up and barked at the sound of his master’s voice. Peter had to smile – having a puppy in the house was good for him. They had rescued Satch when he was just a few weeks old – almost too young to be separated from his mother. Peter had just gotten out of the hospital when they found him in a box under the front steps, but neither he nor El would have ever considered turning him over to a shelter. This little fellow did a good job, he kept him from falling into black depression, and Peter was looking forward to taking him for long walks as he got his own strength back.  
  
The vet appointment wasn’t for another few hours and Peter resisted the urge to nap. His physical therapy appointment this morning was grueling. They worked him over like a piece of meat, but it was worth it. Being able to walk still seemed like a miracle. He should have been dead. Six hollow-point bullets at close range should have killed him.   
  
He definitely should have been dead.  
  
Peter pushed that thought out of his mind and went for a fresh cup of coffee. Satch whined and chased after him, a bit upset at the disappearance of his favorite chew toy. Peter moved slowly, but at least he was no longer careening from stable piece of furniture to wall to chair. The puppy underfoot didn’t help matters. Back when he was first regaining his mobility, El insisted that Satch go into his crate while Peter hobbled around – as much for his protection as the dog’s. He was steadier now, so Peter left him loose. He didn’t like to box his boy up like a felon simply because he didn’t have complete control of his movements. Peter knew he would just have to be careful.  
  
He made it to the kitchen without incident or accident and poured himself a cup of coffee. The crossword puzzle beckoned and he spent a pleasant hour filling it out. Soon enough it was time for their little adventure.  
  
Leash on Satch, sunglasses, phone, wallet, keys, a few treats to reward good behavior, poop bags. Cane – a hickory one with silver trim, not the ugly aluminum four-pointer that the hospital gave him. No gun, no badge. Not today, not for a while. _But not as long of a while as it could have been, and definitely not forever._  
  
They set out, man and dog, for a slow walk on a warm June day.   
  
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Peter looked down at his dog.  
  
Satchmo didn’t answer, he was more interested in the hydrants and trees and the other dogs out and about. They were halfway to the vet’s office and Peter needed to sit. He could claim a stoop, but he was afraid if he did sit down, he wouldn’t be able to get back up. So he kept going, wondering if it would be too embarrassing to get a cab for the three and a half block trip home.   
  
Shaking and more than a little sweat-soaked, Peter made it to the veterinarian’s office; it seemed like Satchmo pulled him along for the last half a block. The office was in a ground-floor storefront, and Peter gratefully pushed the door open. The waiting room was deserted except for a young man leaning over the receptionist’s desk.  
  
Peter blinked, his eyes adjusting to the comparatively dim interior light. And then he blinked again. The man at the desk wasn’t as young as he first thought, but he was one of the most beautiful human beings he had ever seen: a head of dark, wavy hair, strong brows, cheekbones, nose and chin kissed by the gods, and bright blue eyes, a shade lighter than El’s. Peter had to laugh at himself. Forty-six years old, and he still had a type.  
  
“You must be Satchmo Burke and family, right?”  
  
Peter chuckled. “This,” and he pulled gently on the dog’s straining leash, “is Satchmo. I’m Peter – Peter Burke. You are?” Peter completely forgot his exhaustion.  
  
The man walked out from behind the counter and held out a hand. “Neal Caffrey. I’ve just bought the practice. You two are my last appointment on my very first day here.”   
  
“What happened to Dr. Parker?”  
  
“Ellen retired – she’s raising alpacas and golden retrievers in California by now.”  
  
“Ellen?” Peter wondered at the familiarity.  
  
“She’s an old family friend – the reason why I became a vet.” Neal – Dr. Caffrey – knelt on the floor to greet his patient. “Hello there, Satchmo. How are you today?”  
  
Satch wiggled his whole body, tail going like a windmill in a hurricane. He put his paws on Dr. Caffrey’s shoulders and licked the vet’s face.  
  
“I was going to warn you that my dog is atypical of his breed and a little standoffish, but he seems to like you.”   
  
“All dogs like me. Even the mean ones.”   
  
“A nice talent to have, especially for a vet.” Peter said, dryly.  
  
The doctor smiled and Peter forgot to breathe. “Yeah – but cats make me work for it.” He took Satchmo’s leash from Peter’s unresisting fingers and went to the examining rooms. Peter followed helplessly, keeping his jaw tightly shut, least his tongue start to drag. It had been so long since he felt this way, and he wasn’t even sure he should.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal bought the practice from Ellen hoping to make a fresh start, have a new life – clean and stainless and full of purpose. She was and old and dear friend of his mother, and two months ago, had called him as a last resort. Not that there wasn’t lack any affection between them – far from it – but she hadn’t been expecting to sell the practice to him. She was just eager to sell out and retire and wanted to know if he would step into the practice while she still shopped around for a buyer.  
  
He was so damn tired of the peripatetic life, never settling down in any place for too long. His life was measured in limited term contracts: six months in a consulting position in DC, five months in the Hamptons, two months in Boston. Living in extended stay hotels, constantly leaving everyone behind, like a fugitive on the run. He was tired of living in fear.   
  
Neal almost couldn’t believe his own ears when he asked Ellen if she’d sell it to him for market price.  
  
It had been eight years since he walked away from the ruins of his life. Eight years of looking over his shoulder, eight years wondering if his life was going to be his own, and so many more than eight years since he felt completely safe. His great mistake was almost a decade ago, and he wondered if he’d ever get out from under that.  
  
Neal knew that putting down roots was a risk, but when Ellen got in touch with him, he had a gut feeling that it was time to stop wandering, that it was safe now. The down payment on the practice was steep. It took almost all his reserves, but it also included a year’s rent on Ellen’s Cobble Hill townhouse, just a few blocks from the park and from the office, plus the option to buy.  
  
Opening the front door this morning, breathing in the scent of small animals, cleaning products and disinfectant – a smell sweeter than the finest perfume – was one of the best moments of his life. This was his – and he’d make it a success. No more running for Neal George Caffrey, DVM.  
  
For first days, everything went surprisingly well. The small staff was staying on, none of the patients seemed inclined to take their business elsewhere, and he didn’t get clawed by any cats. That Donna, the receptionist, needed to take off before his last patient arrived – she only worked until four, and Mike, the intern/assistant, had late afternoon classes – didn’t seem to be a problem for him.  
  
Neal was never inclined to be a hard ass, and since the last patient was a six month old puppy coming in for a routine checkup, he saw no need to keep either of them hanging around. What he wasn’t expecting was the puppy’s owner to be so, well, gorgeous.  
  
Peter Burke wasn’t attractive in the conventional sort of way. Tall and on the thin side, he looked like a man recovering his health after a long illness. But there was something about him – a bone-deep kindness, intelligence, and a sexy confidence that made him feel things that he hadn’t felt in years.  
  
Everything about this man said “trust me” and Neal wanted to. It was crazy – thirty seconds after meeting this man, all he wanted to do was find a place at his side, like a dog. It was way too dangerous. Way too tempting.  
  
And Peter Burke was clearly a very married man. He didn’t even need to see the well-worn wedding band on his left hand to figure that out. Men like this weren’t left loose for long – he was as married and as faithful as the dog his puppy would become.  
  
But then he smiled at him and there was something there, something that said he was _interested?_.  
  
No, life didn’t work like that.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had to smile as Satchmo kept trying to wash Dr. Caffrey’s face. The puppy had never shown so much enthusiasm for anyone but him and El – which suited the two of them just fine. They didn’t want a guard dog, but having a dog that would all but let a stranger in and serve him coffee and cake wasn’t a good thing either.  
  
Satch; however, seemed to adore this new vet. “Tell me, do you use bacon scented cologne?” Peter couldn’t help himself from asking.   
  
Dr. Caffrey chuckled. “Nope – like I said, dogs _really_ like me.” He pressed Satchmo’s head out of the way and listened to his heart and lungs. “Everything seems to be fine with your guy. Let’s check the microchip.” The scanner beeped and Satchmo barked.  
  
“You are going to have him neutered, right?” Despite the phrasing, it really wasn’t posed as a question. Peter fought the urge to drop a protective hand over his groin.  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“No – not probably. You are going to have Satchmo neutered.”  
  
Peter stepped back, a little put out at the other man’s insistence. “That’s really not your decision.”  
  
Caffrey glared at him and Peter was reminded of an angry, determined bird of prey. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who projects their masculinity onto everything? I bet you probably have a few guns – big ones. They’re not substitutes for a small penis.”  
  
Peter blinked. “Excuse me?” This aggression was bizarre and unexpected.  
  
“Your dog’s health, long life and safety are important, right?”  
  
He elected to forget that crack about guns and penis size. “Yes, of course.”  
  
“Unless you are planning to show and breed Mr. Satchmo here, you really need to have him neutered. He’ll live longer, be happier, and have fewer behavioral issues.”  
  
Peter sighed. The vet was right. But still, the thought of neutering …  
  
“If Satchmo was female, would you have this issue?” Caffrey dialed down the aggression with this very reasonable question.  
  
“No – and you’re right.” Peter scrubbed at his face. “It’s just …”  
  
“Yeah – I know. If you want, I can put in a pair of neuticles.”  
  
“Huh?” That wasn’t a term he was familiar with.  
  
“Fake testicles. Will give the boy here something to lick when he gets bored.”  
  
Peter nodded slowly – it was either that or burst out in hysterical laughter.   
  
Caffrey smiled at him. “I’m sorry if I came off as an asshole before – but I’ve seen beautiful dogs ruined because their owners refused to have them neutered. Men usually – they measure themselves by the size of their dog’s balls.”  
  
“That’s okay. El would have taken Satch in if I refused to.” That was definitely true – she had put her foot down when they decided to keep the puppy. She wasn’t going to put up with spraying and marking and having to deal with him chasing after every bitch in heat.  
  
“El?”  
  
“Elizabeth, my wife. She’ll probably be the one to bring him in.”  
  
The vet nodded. “Will you want the prosthetics?”  
  
Peter looked at Satch, who was wearing his biggest doggie grin. “What do you say, boy? You want plastic balls?”  
  
Satchmo barked, jumped up and started licking his face.  
  
Caffrey wryly commented, “I take it that means yes.”  
  
Peter held the puppy as the vet took blood. He must have been extremely gentle. The little guy didn’t even whimper as the needle went in.  
  
“We’re done.” Caffrey gave Satch a treat and took him off the table. “We’ll make the appointment for the procedure today.” His tone brooked no contradiction. Peter found the doctor’s passionate commitment intriguing, and it more than made up for the aggressively insulting comment about guns.  
  
“Fine, fine.” Peter maneuvered himself around carefully; his leg had stiffened during the examination. He followed the vet back out to the waiting room.   
  
The doctor looked around the desk and frowned. “I have no idea how to take your money.”  
  
Peter pulled out his wallet. “Do you want me to write a check?”  
  
Caffrey looked at the file, at the desk again with its darkened computer screen, then back to the file. He finally looked up at Peter, a rueful smile twisted his lips. “I don’t know what to charge you. And everything was going so smoothly.”  
  
Peter couldn’t help himself. “And I’d bet that you don’t know how to make appointments, either.”  
  
The other man threw up his hands, Satchmo barked at the abrupt gesture. “It’s my first day! Give me a break.” He chuckled at his own mock-whine.  
  
“I don’t live far – and I’m supposed to walk every afternoon. I could come back tomorrow, Dr. Caffrey.”  
  
“Oh, call me Neal. And that would be perfect.” He checked something on the desk. “We’re opened until three, and I think Donna will be here until closing.”  
  
“Neal it is. And I’ll be here before three.” Peter stuck out his hand, Neal took it. He always learned a lot from another person’s handshake. Neal Caffrey’s was firm, his palm hard but not rough, warm and dry and above all, confident.   
  
Maybe he’d come with El when they brought Satch in for his operation. And maybe if he was lucky, he’d see Neal tomorrow, too.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
He watched his patient – and his patient’s owner – leave. The late afternoon sun was like a knife as it poured into the darkened waiting room when they opened to door.  
  
Peter Burke moved slowly and Neal couldn’t help but wonder about that, about the cane. And about the comment about walking every day. So his initial impression was probably right – the man was recovering from something.  
  
The office’s resident cat jumped on the desk and hissed at him. “I know why Ellen left you behind – she didn’t want you scaring the alpacas.” But like a magpie’s urge to steal shiny things, Neal couldn’t keep from petting the animal. It was an irresistible temptation, and he got clawed for his efforts.   
  
“Evil thing.”   
  
The cat hissed at him again and stalked away, tail high in the air.  
  
But Neal wasn’t wholly distracted from the memory of Mr. Peter Burke. Who was much married, highly responsible and sexy as hell. And despite that moment when he thought he sensed just a hint of interest, probably as straight as an arrow.  
  
He left fresh water for the demon creature, a note for Donna about the Burkes’ to-be-paid bill and to-be-scheduled appointment, set the alarm and left. All in all, a very good first day.  
  
The townhouse he was renting from Ellen was a few blocks away and Neal was looking forward to going home – if just for the fact that he had a place to call home now. He walked briskly, his thoughts flitting from satisfaction to satisfaction – dwelling a bit on Peter Burke, if truth be told – when he was interrupted by a familiar high-pitched bark.  
  
“Satchmo?”  
  
It was the puppy, straining at his leash, happy to see him. His owner; however, didn’t seem to notice. Peter Burke was sitting on a stoop, massaging his thigh and groaning in pain.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
The man looked up, his face gray.  
  
“Cramp – just give me a sec.” He dug his finger into the muscle and bit his lip.   
  
Neal stood there, helpless to do anything. He didn’t think an offer to help massage his leg – at least here on the street – would be a good idea. But as the dog’s leash got tangled, he realized that was something he could do.   
  
“I’ve got him.” He extricated the leash and the puppy from between Peter’s legs and sat down. Satchmo climbed up and joined them, indiscriminately licking first his owner’s face, then Neal’s.  
  
The cramp seemed to pass. Peter had stopped massaging his thigh.  
  
“Ahhh. I think … I’m okay now.” Peter stretched his leg. “Yeah. It’s all right. You’ve got good timing, Doc.” His color was improving.  
  
“Just heading home.” Neal stood, and held out a hand to Peter. “Can I get you a cab? Anyone you want me to call?”  
  
“No – no. I’m a half-block from my house. Just overdid it today.”  
  
Neal really wanted to ask what happened, but it didn’t seem too polite. _Ah, fuck politeness_. “What’s wrong with your leg?”  
  
Peter looked up sharply. “I was shot ten months ago.”  
  
 _Shit. And I made that dumb crack about guns._ “Robbery?”  
  
“No – in the line of duty.”  
  
“You’re a cop?” That was the last profession he figured for the enticing Mr. Peter Burke.   
  
“Not a cop, an FBI agent.”  
  
Neal grimaced, very bad memories surfacing. He took a step back.   
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing. Just nothing.” He swallowed his nausea and fought against the urge to turn his back and walk away.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
He would have made it home fine, but his goddamned leg seized up. He’d been warned about that: overworking the debilitated muscles. While his therapist wanted him to walk, he needed to do it in moderation. Apparently, three city blocks was excessive for his still healing body.  
  
And to cap his humiliation, that perfect specimen of humanity – Neal Caffrey – had to find him writhing in pain.  
  
Not for the first time since getting out of the hospital, Peter felt old and used up. And then he noticed Caffrey’s look of disgust when he said he was an FBI agent. That was just more than he could take right now. Peter used the cane to lever himself upright, ignoring Caffrey’s outstretched hand offering assistance. “My dog, please.”  
  
Neal handed over the leash, a tight expression on his face. Peter didn’t care. He limped home slowly, tugging at Satchmo as the puppy trailed behind, looking back at the man standing in the middle of the sidewalk.  
  
Peter wasn’t sure how he managed the front steps, but he got inside, got the leash off the dog and collapsed onto the couch, sweating and exhausted. El – he needed to call Elizabeth. It was an effort to fish the phone out from his pocket, and almost too much to dial. The thought of conversation was exhausting.  
  
El answered on the first ring. “Hey, hon. How did it go?”  
  
“Not going to lie – I think I overdid it.”  
  
His wife’s sigh was too audible. “I’ll be home in an hour. Will you be okay?”  
  
“I’ll be fine, just going to take a nap. If you want to get Chinese …” He knew he sounded pathetic. Hopefully El wouldn’t realize just how pathetic he was.  
  
“Hot and sour soup, chicken in XO sauce, cold sesame noodles.” El knew exactly what he wanted; he was such a creature of habit.  
  
“Thanks, hon.” He just wanted to close his eyes and nap.  
  
“Peter – ” There was a deep note of worry in his wife’s voice.  
  
“El – I’m fine, really. Just overdid it.”  
  
“Okay.” She didn’t believe him; that was clear. “I’ll see you in an hour or so. Rest, mister.”  
  
“Your wish is my command.” The call ended and Peter shifted so he could stretch out on the couch. Closing his eyes, he drifted off; he didn’t even register the cushions bouncing when Satchmo jumped on the couch.  
  
But the thoughts and images that bubbled up from his tired brain were disruptive. Neal Caffrey – it had been a long time since he was so instantly attracted to someone. It was like that with El – he was smitten in a heartbeat. But the man obviously had a problem with his career. Well, fuck him.  
  
 _That’s the problem – you’d like to do just that._  
  
He dozed until El got home, and had not Satchmo walked all over him to get to the door, he might have slept longer.  
  
There was plenty of lingering stiffness in his leg, but Peter felt surprisingly good. Maybe the worst was behind him. The food smelled delicious and his stomach rumbled. Yes – he was definitely on the mend.   
  
“Hey, hon.” He kissed Elizabeth, and another appetite sparked. “Mmm.” She tasted of wine and mint and love. He kissed her again, and her mouth opened to him, her lips pliant, but not passive as she kissed him back. It deepened, tongues touching, chasing, retreating and coming back to something so familiar, so wonderful. _I have missed this, I have missed you. I love you_ words spoken in gesture, in the constant contact. _I am alive, I am here._ Arousal, long unfamiliar, but as welcome as the dawn spread through his body and he pulled her along, back to the couch, need riding him.  
  
If it wasn’t for the dog, the Chinese food and the open curtains, they’d have made love for the first time since the shooting, right there on the living room couch.  
  
Not that it would have been a bad thing, and they had certainly made love on the couch many times. But not with the curtains open, not with a puppy trying to get into a bag of very-bad-for-him food. And if Peter was honest with himself, he didn’t think he could do Elizabeth or his desire justice on the couch, and it would definitely be a buzz-kill if his leg seized up again.  
  
“Mmmm. Peter.” El kissed him, slipping her tongue between his lips, a little flickering tease. “Where did this come from?” She rubbed herself against him.  
  
“Dunno – but I don’t care.” They necked like teenagers for a little while longer and Peter’s good intentions almost flew out the window, until they heard the sound of a paper bag tearing.  
  
“Better get the food away from Satch.” El got up and shooed the dog. “It’s still hot – do you want to eat now?”  
  
He weighed the options, and was about to suggest they just go upstairs when El’s stomach rumbled. And then his did as well. “You have your answer.”  
  
El pulled out two sets of chopsticks. “Want to not bother with plates?”  
  
He set the cartons on the table, fetched some napkins and they dined like college students – straight from the carton.  
  
“Hon?”  
  
El looked up from fishing out the last remnants of the sesame noodles. “Hmmm?”  
  
“Would you mind if I went up to take a shower?”  
  
The smile she gave him went right to his groin. “You better hurry. I may just join you there.”  
  
He smiled back just as lasciviously, refusing to let any worry about being able to perform in the shower bother him. “See you upstairs, Mrs. Burke. Don’t be too long.” He couldn’t believe himself, but he actually wagged his eyebrows at his wife.  
  
The trip upstairs was slow – but not tentative. It was as if the cramp that afternoon had worked something out. He didn’t feel fit, but he certainly felt alive, vital. The bathroom quickly steamed up and he stripped and stepped into the spray of hot water. He tried to be efficient – but his hands lingered at the scars. Two on his chest, one at his hip. A deep furrow on his right bicep, another one on his left shoulder.  
  
And the fist-sized indentation on his left leg with the snaking scars from hip to knee where he had been cut, and cut, and cut again. His femur was a modern medical miracle – an amalgam of bone and metal and epoxy. Ten years ago, he would have died from an infection, if the blood loss hadn’t killed him first. Five years ago, amputation may have been a foregone conclusion. But today, he was walking and very soon, he’d be making love to his wife for the first time in ten months.  
  
His dick, for so long a thing of little use and less pleasure, was chubbing up, flushing bright red. He gave it a stroke. “Hey, guy.” It bobbed, as if to acknowledge Peter’s greeting. “Good to see you, too.”  
  
He put on a robe, shaved and brushed his teeth. Hobbling into the bedroom, he passed El – she gave him a quick kiss as she ducked into the bathroom. She had done her thing, turning down the covers, lighting a few strategically placed candles. This felt good – it felt better than good.  
  
He tossed the robe on the chair and studiously avoided looking in the mirror. He wasn’t ashamed of the scars, and god knew, El had seen them plenty of times, but still, he didn’t like to look.  
  
Peter sat on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. There was a box of condoms there, he pushed those aside. They didn’t need to worry about birth control, but he did want the lube. Or maybe not – not tonight.  
  
“Hey, hon.”  
  
Peter looked up. El was standing in the doorway, wearing his favorite blue silk robe – the short one that matched her eyes and barely covered her ass.  
  
“Hey, hon.” The reply – though second nature – was heartfelt. _Hello there, I love you so very much._ “What are you doing so far away?”  
  
El sashayed across the room, her breasts gently swaying. _Definitely naked under the robe._ She sat down next to him.  
  
“You know, this feels a little like our wedding night.”  
  
She was right. “Yeah – it does.”   
  
“Except neither of us is drunk, and there’s no chance of your sister playing nasty tricks on us.”  
  
Peter grinned at the memory and then let it fade. He threaded his fingers through his wife’s lush, dark hair. “Come here.”  
  
She leaned in and they fell back onto the bed, kissing without restraint, devouring each other like they hadn’t eaten in months. And in truth, they hadn’t. Peter pulled Elizabeth on top of him and she straddled his hips. A swift tug on the sash and her robe fell open.  
  
His wife’s body wasn’t strange to him, nor was it unremembered. But tonight, it like coming back to a place long absent, a temple for a rediscovered faith. Her breasts were perfect apples, and he brushed his thumbs across her nipples, they tightened like flowers in the night. She swayed over him, and he pulled her down so he could taste that sweet skin, savor the silk and satin and the utter strength.  
  
El hissed in pleasure and he whispered, “I love you” between kisses. A verbal tattoo against her skin. “I need you forever.” _Thank you for loving me, thank you for waiting, thank you for being._  
  
His body, an enemy for so long, was brimming with power; it flowed out over his skin, electric, vibrant. His cock was a pulse beat, a drumbeat, a second heart, hot and eager.  
  
El reared back, and his hand slid down her body. Peter’s fingers found slick skin, hot and wet beneath silken curls. She bore down with graceful pressure, her taking her time, taking her own pleasure.   
  
“Yes, oh yes.” The words were uttered in grateful desire. Her body wrapped itself around three, then four hard fingers, the first release and then the second swiftly following.  
  
Her body reluctantly released his fingers, and Elizabeth looked at him from behind that curtain of hair, her blue eyes glowing like some jungle creature, her grin just as feral. A movement, a shift in posture and she positioned herself like a dancer, sinking down on his steel-hard cock.  
  
Peter thought he could pass out from the perfection of this pleasure, it had always been so good between them – but this was a whole universe beyond good. Elizabeth rode him; she kept perfect control, teasing him until he thought he’d go blind. When the end finally came, when he came, there was nothing except the perfect heat of his wife’s cunt and arms and thighs and breasts. The drape of her hair across his face, her lips against his ear, her words echoing his.   
  
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Her satisfaction was bone deep. Her happiness, soul deep. There were days when she had silently despaired of having her husband back. Having Peter back. Her lover, her best friend, the man she wanted to grow old with.  
  
And by all rights, she should have been a widow. _No, no – don’t think that, ever_. Six shots. Of course she hadn't been there, but she could hear them in her sleep – six seconds that nearly destroyed her. But as strong as she was, she had to be stronger still.  
  
Endless days and nights in the hospital, waiting, hoping, trusting that science would keep her husband alive just another day. As the days accumulated into weeks and then months, she suffered. A lonely house missing its heartbeat, colleagues and friends who never seemed to have the time to sit down and share a cup of coffee with her. Her husband, Peter, once so strong, reduced to relying on others for the most basic bodily functions.  
  
It hadn’t been easy – and there were times that she just wanted to … what? Leave? No, never. But escape, yes. A week, maybe. A day, perhaps. And as the thought occurred, guilt and concern chased it away.  
  


_“El – you have to. For both our sakes.” Peter himself pleaded with her._

_“No.” She tried to be adamant, but it was hard._

_“I’m on the mend, hon. It’s just a week in the Bahamas. It takes longer to get to the Hamptons than to fly to the Caribbean.”_

_“Peter, I’m not going anywhere while you’re trying to learn how to walk again.”_

_He looked at her – that narrow-eyed gaze that probably had been responsible for dozens, if not hundreds of criminal confessions. “You need a break, El. Don’t think I can’t see how exhausted you are. You’ve been at my side for three months – when was the last time you did a damn thing for yourself?” Peter had picked up her hand and showed her her own fingernails – ragged and uneven, complete with cracked cuticles._

_“Hon … ”_

_“Don’t ‘hon’ me, Elizabeth Burke. I need you strong and healthy. I need you to be the woman I married. Not an exhausted shell.”_

_She hated him at that moment – how easily he could turn on her weaknesses._

_“Three days – the Jersey shore.” She bargained._

_“No. Six days, the Bahamas.”_

_“Damn it, Peter – I don’t want to be that far away.” She was weakening._

_“And getting stuck in traffic on the Turnpike will make a difference?”_

_She scowled._

_“El – go. Find some beautiful young thing, fuck his brains out and come home to me.”_

_A flush darkened her cheeks. “No – that I won’t do.”_

_“We have an agreement, hon.”_

_“And that’s set aside for now. I’m not indulging until you can, too.”_

_“El – it could be months…”_

_“And I don’t care. I’ll go to the Bahamas. I’ll eat, drink and be merry. But I’m not fucking anyone. Not until you can, too.”_

_Peter had swallowed audibly – always a precursor to his hard-fought tears. “Hon.”_

  
  
She ran a hand down Peter’s chest, her fingers lingering on the one of the scars. His vest had slowed the progress of the two bullets aimed at his heart, but they had been fired at such close range that they punctured the Kevlar and had to be cut out of him.  
  
“Your thoughts are noisy.”  
  
“Sorry.”   
  
Peter shifted and pressed a kiss on her head. “I’m all right now.”  
  
There was nothing to say to that. Tonight had been an unexpected milestone – and so much more than that. “I love you.” She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, above another scar.  
  
“What are you thinking about? Other than the obvious?”  
  
“The obvious.”  
  
Peter chuckled and she smiled, sweeping her hand down his belly, nails just brushing the top of his pubes. “Welcome home, Peter Burke.”  
  
“It’s good to be home, Elizabeth Burke.” He tilted his hips up to meet her questing hand, and stifled a groan. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of pleasure.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Peter moved a bit, resettling himself. “I’m okay – I’m fine.”  
  
“But let’s not push it?”  
  
“Hmmm, I can think of a few things I’d like to push.”   
  
“But in a little while?”  
  
“Hmm, yeah.” Peter sounded sleepy. “Love you, El. You have no idea how much.”  
  
 _Oh, I do, hon. I do._  
  
They slept for a little while, a dreamless, wordless state until the bright summer moon filled the darkened room. El rolled over and remembered the dog. Satch was still a puppy and wouldn’t last until morning. She put on Peter’s robe and her own slippers and hurried downstairs, hoping it wasn’t too late.  
  
The dog was actually sleeping in front of the back door and El had to smile when he lifted his head, hope in his eyes.   
  
“Yeah, boy – sorry. Almost forgot.” She let him out and stood on the small patio, breathing in the scents and sounds of a city never quite asleep. Satch did his business; she gave him his tiny late night treat and went back upstairs.   
  
Peter’s bedside light was on and he was reading the latest Grisham bestseller. Elizabeth paused at the doorway and wished she was an artist or a photographer. The light pooled down, gilding his sleep-mussed hair, sparkling on the metal frames of his reading glasses, making his skin glow. The rest of the room was all soft, velvety darkness now that the moon had moved behind the trees. He was so beautiful, he made her heart ache.  
  
Maybe she sighed. Peter looked up, a smile on his lips. “Hi, hon. Everything all right?”  
  
“Yeah – just needed to let Satch out. Did I wake you?”  
  
“Not really – had to get up.” Peter set the book aside and took off his glasses. “You good?”  
  
She grinned and considered the question. The look he gave her made her nipples tighten. “Yeah, really good. You?”  
  
“Very – come back to bed.”   
  
She dropped the robe and was rewarded with a hiss of indrawn breath.   
  
“Mrs. Burke, you are one very sexy woman.”  
  
Their coupling this time was slower, each gesture savored. The gentleness magnified the sensations and when they both came, they didn’t so much as collapse in delicious exhaustion as glide down into welcome satiation.  
  
This was their marriage as she remembered best. More than sex, it was the closeness of moments like this that helped her through endless lonely nights and frustrating, frightening days.  
  
“Hmmm, never asked. How did your meeting go?”  
  
“She’s going to be the client from hell, but I’m charging accordingly.”  
  
They chatted a bit about the client’s crazy requirements for her daughter’s wedding, and other less interesting things. Peter was about to turn off the light when she remembered something.  
  
“How did Satch do at the vet today? He didn’t nip at Dr. Parker, I hope.” And something else. “Did you remember to make the appointment for his surgery?” Talking about getting their dog neutered just after sex made her want to giggle.  
  
But Peter froze and got a funny look on his face.   
  
“Hon – what’s the matter.”  
  
He sighed and gave her a twisted smile. “Dr. Parker retired – there’s a new vet.”  
  
“You know, I think I saw a card from the office a few weeks ago that she was retiring – it slipped my mind. Don’t tell me, Satchmo bit the new doctor?”  
  
“No. He definitely did not. I’ve never seen him so enamored with a stranger.”   
  
She picked something up in Peter’s voice. “Tell me about him.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The new vet – what’s his name? What’s he like?”  
  
“Neal – Neal Caffrey. He’s …”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Very … symmetrical.”  
  
Elizabeth leaned up on one elbow and looked at Peter. “Symmetrical?”  
  
“Okay, he’s gorgeous. Reminds me of you. But with an expertly cut five o’clock shadow. And no tits.”  
  
She raised her eyebrows. “Anyone tell you that you have a type?”  
  
“Yeah, smart, leggy blue-eyed brunettes. I know – old joke.”  
  
“So, you think he’d be _interested_?” They hadn’t shared a partner in a long time – even before Peter’s shooting.  
  
“Don’t know. Could be. I didn’t get the sense that he was attached. He’s a little strange, though.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Well, he was most insistent about having Satch neutered.”  
  
“That’s not strange, that’s smart – and he should be.” They had had this argument more than a few times.  
  
“And he didn’t seem to like the idea that I’m an FBI agent.” Peter explained how the man found him – sitting on a stoop, working a cramp out. “He didn’t have that reaction when he asked if I was a cop.”  
  
“Oh, well – that sort of sucks.”  
  
“Yeah. Why would a veterinarian have a dislike of FBI agents?” Peter wondered.  
  
“Don’t know. You’re not thinking of having Diana run his name.”   
  
Peter blinked.  
  
“Let me rephrase the question. You are not having Diana run his name. You have no reason to.”  
  
“Other than vulgar curiosity. The PATRIOT Act has to be good for something.”  
  
“Peter …”  
  
“Okay, hon. I won’t ask Diana to run his name.”  
  
“You won’t ask _anyone_ to run his name. You won’t _tell_ anyone to run his name. You will respect the man’s privacy – got it?”  
  
“You know me too well.” He kissed her. “Anyway – I’ve got to go back tomorrow afternoon.” Peter told her about needing to pay the bill and schedule Satchmo’s surgery.  
  
“You can’t, you’ve got appointments all day – PT, the session with Dr. Briggs. And the consultation with the plastic surgeon.”  
  
“Yeah, damn.”  
  
“I’m working from home tomorrow, so I’ll go. I’d like to meet this symmetrical wonder.”   
  
“El – whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.”  
  
“Hon, I just want to meet him.” _And see what’s got my husband so interested._  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
His second day wasn’t going as well as his first. It started with a cat and projectile vomit. Then the pair of rats that got loose from a faulty travel cage. That was more high comedy than tragedy, particularly since they cornered the Demon Creature and made it howl. But tragedy came anyway and Neal’s heart broke. A five year old black Lab with advanced leukemia that had to be put to sleep.   
  
Neal wanted to close himself in his tiny, cramped office and cry. Instead, he washed his face, looked in the mirror in and told himself to cowboy up.   
  
It was three o’clock and no more patients. Neal went to see Donna, who promised to show him the patient billing and payment system and how to book appointments. As he approached, he couldn’t help but notice the gorgeous brunette chatting with his receptionist and he happened to catch the word “Satchmo.”   
  
Pasting his friendliest smile on, Neal waded in. “Elizabeth Burke?”  
  
“Why, yes. How did you know?”  
  
“I could profess to being a great detective, but I heard you mention your dog’s name. And your husband had mentioned yours when he was here yesterday”  
  
“Ah.” Her smile was bright and intelligence shone from her eyes. “You must be Dr. Caffrey.” She held out her hand.  
  
“Guilty as charged.” Now, why did he say that? “You’ve got Satchmo down for his little surgery?” Neal looked over Donna’s shoulder and saw that Satch would be coming back in about four weeks.  
  
“Yes – and paid the bill.” She was still smiling at him. He was accustomed to the appreciative gazes of men and women – but there was definitely something in the look she was giving him. As if she was sizing him up – but for what?  
  
Donna cleared her throat. “Doc – I’m going to take off. I need to pick my son up from daycare. How about I show you the system tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” He replied, still distracted by Mrs. Burke. Her smile widened a fraction and it sent a frisson up his spine. He stepped out of the way as Donna retrieved her purse, maneuvering around the small reception area.   
  
Neal cleared his throat. “Umm – your husband – is he okay?”  
  
“Peter’s just fine – doing much better. Thank you for asking.”   
  
There was definitely something there, in the slight huskiness of her voice. “Good, good – I was a little worried about him.”  
  
Mrs. Burke made no attempt to leave. She just kept smiling at him. It was unnerving and a little arousing. He licked his lips and her eyes widened. The moment; however, was lost when the Demon Creature jumped onto the counter.  
  
“What a beautiful cat.” She held out her hand.  
  
“Be careful – she may be beautiful, but she’s treacherous.” And as the words left his mouth, the ornery animal butted her head against the woman’s hand and started purring. He shook his head. “How did you do that?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
The Demon Creature looked up at him, orange eyes glowing, and gave him a half-hearted hiss and went back to its insane purring under Elizabeth Burke’s hand. “That cat hates everyone. She regularly bites Donna’s ankles and tries to gut my assistant Mike with her ninja claws when he feeds her. I almost lost a hand to her this morning.”  
  
“You’re exaggerating.”  
  
Neal chuckled. “Yeah, well just a little. But she’s not a nice cat. Even Ellen didn’t like her. ”  
  
“Well, maybe I have the touch.” She stroked the cat’s head, and the purring went into fifth gear.   
  
Neal couldn’t take his eyes off of Mrs. Burke’s hand. He had this very naughty image of that hand stroking other things. He was going mad. Only a week back in Brooklyn, and he was going stark raving mad.  
  
“Ummm, I was going to close up now.”  
  
“Oh, oh – sorry!” She stopped petting the cat, who gave them both baleful looks before stalking off. “I should get home, too. Do you and your family live in the neighborhood?”  
  
“No family.” Neal found himself telling her about the townhouse he was leasing. “I was on my way home when I found your husband yesterday – he was in a lot pain.” _Good – remind her of her injured spouse._ That didn’t work. Her grin only got wider.  
  
“Then you can walk me home and tell me why you don’t like FBI agents.”  
  
Neal swallowed. “I have no problem with the FBI.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Really?”  
  
“Really.” Nothing like lying through your teeth to a beautiful woman with too-knowing eyes.  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
Neal smiled – the full-wattage one. “But I can still walk home with you. Just let me lock up.”  
  
The walk was brief, he asked her how long she and her husband had lived in the neighborhood, and she asked him about why he became a vet. By the time he finished explaining they had stopped in front of a small townhouse – not that dissimilar from his own.   
  
“Would you like to come in? Cold drink, cup of coffee?”  
  
Neal blinked. He had the feeling he was being set up. “Umm – I’ve – uh – I… Mrs. Burke.” He was sure he was blushing bright red.  
  
“Call me Elizabeth.”  
  
“Elizabeth. I don’t …”  
  
“Peter’s probably home – I’m sure he’d love to see you.” There was a thread of steel in that statement.  
  
Neal no longer reacted well to coercion, even this gentle type. “Thanks – but no. I’ve still got a lot of things to sort out – with my move, starting a new job, everything.” Even to his own ears, the excuses sounded lame.” He started to walk away.  
  
“Maybe you’d like to come for dinner on Friday?” Elizabeth called after him.  
  
He stopped and turned around. There was a surprising touch of hope in that invitation. “Why?”  
  
She shrugged. “You seem nice – my husband likes you, my dog likes you. Why not?”  
  
Neal relaxed. He was probably reading too much into things. “I’ve got to go out of town very early Saturday morning, so Friday night wouldn’t work. Maybe Sunday?”  
  
Elizabeth smiled like it was Christmas morning. “Sunday is good – probably better than Friday. Seven o’clock?”  
  
“Sounds perfect.”  
  
She fished something out of her purse – a business card. “Take this – if you have to cancel, just call my cell.”  
  
“I could always check Satchmo’s file for your home number.”  
  
“Isn’t this easier?” She held out the card and he took it.  
  
“Okay – thanks.” He started to walk away but didn’t get very far.  
  
“Neal?”  
  
He turned back.  
  
“You like meat, right?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
Now, there was something unmistakable lascivious about Elizabeth Burke’s smile. “Good, see you on Sunday.” She turned and just about bounded up her front steps.  
  
Neal was left standing there. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

_  
  
_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

“You did what?” He couldn’t believe it.  
  
“I invited Neal to dinner on Sunday. Well, the original invitation was for Friday, but he said he couldn’t make it that night.”  
  
“El …”  
  
Peter was relaxing on the bed, watching as his wife stripped out of her business clothes and changed into an exercise bra and shorts. He felt like a randy teenager peering into the girls’ locker room; particularly as El went through her stretches. Arousal rumbled through him, a warm spark in his belly, the unexpected invitation to Neal momentarily forgotten.  
  
She looked up, mischief in her eyes, breasts outthrust. He could see the outline of her nipples against the tight material.  
  
“You’re doing that deliberately, aren’t you?  
  
“Now, hon.” El began her workout.  
  
“Hmmmm.” He watched her through narrowed eyes. Pilates wasn’t _supposed_ to be sexy.  
  
It wasn’t until she finished, and then they finished, that Peter remembered the invitation.  
  
“You really want to do this?” He was a little worried that El was humoring him. Well, not _humoring_ , but accommodating him.  
  
“Peter – calling Neal Caffrey ‘symmetrical’ is like calling the Eiffel Tower ‘tall.’ You may be technically correct, but you’re not telling the whole story.”  
  
“I did say he’s gorgeous, El.”  
  
She sat up, naked breasts bobbing – a distraction. “And if it was just a matter of his spectacular looks, I’d call you shallow and wish you good luck. But there’s something…” She rolled over onto her back and her voice trailed off.  
  
“Yeah, something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like I need to get to know him better. Like he was meant to be part of us.”  
  
“I know. It’s crazy.” El got up and went to take a shower.   
  
Peter closed his eyes and thought about the strange and oddly elusive Neal Caffrey. It didn’t take much for his daydreams to turn _interesting_.  
  
He reached down and brushed his fingers against his spent cock, which began to twitch back to eager life. It was as if all the desire he hadn’t been able to feel since the shooting was now bubbling in his veins. He concentrated on the man’s blue eyes, the clever twist of his lips, his obvious passion. He saw a wicked smile, bright and intense like quicksilver, then felt it against his own lips. A catch of indrawn breath – the sensation was almost real.  
  
His fingers, the gun calluses gone soft, stroked up and down his cock, his thumb catching a fluid drop of precome, using it like slick. The build was slow – not because desire was hard to call, but because he was a man, and he just had a very satisfying encounter with his wife. Slow was good, though. Slow meant his imagination could roam free – all the things he now wanted to do, he wanted done to him.  
  
“Can anyone join this party?”  
  
El had come back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, her damp hair framing her face. Peter fought hard against the distraction she presented.   
  
“Are you thinking about Neal?” She ran a finger across the tip of his cock, swirling the precome.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“I’m thinking about how his beard will feel against my thighs. How expert his mouth will be.”  
  
“Or maybe we’ll have to train him?”  
  
That idea was appealing, and Peter imagined Neal naked, on his knees, El behind him, teaching him how to give head, whispering all sorts of dirty instructions. His cock, already hard, got impossibly harder.  
  
“You like that, hon.”  
  
“Yes. You’ll show him just what I like.”  
  
“We’ll make him into such a perfect cock sucker. He’ll be begging for it when we’re done with him.”  
  
He should have been embarrassed that he came just from El’s words and the images they created. He should have been embarrassed about so thoroughly objectifying a man they barely knew, who probably would run screaming if he knew what they wanted to do to him.  
  
But he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed. There was nothing wrong with a few harmless fantasies, right?  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal dithered – and he wasn’t the dithering type.  
  
After walking Elizabeth Burke home on Tuesday night and accepting her rather surprising dinner invitation, he thought about canceling.  
  
Constantly.   
  
By noon, Wednesday, he had dialed Elizabeth’s cell phone number a dozen times, but couldn’t bring himself to press “send.” By Thursday, he had made himself into a nervous wreck. It was stupid – just a dinner with a nice couple who were welcoming him into the neighborhood. Nothing sinister, nothing to be _afraid of_.  
  
But he was – that was the simple, honest truth. He was scared witless. It had been more years than he cared to remember since he had just socialized with people. Had a casual meal with friends. Enjoyed himself without having to watch his back or consider every word that came out of his mouth.  
  
But Neal didn’t cancel. He remembered the first impression he had had of Peter Burke. Decent, honest, kind. Not a man who’d …  
  
 _No – don’t think about that._ Neal’s body clenched in remembered shame and agony. And grief.  
  
Saturday rolled around and he went to retrieve his stuff, personal things that had been in storage for almost a decade. During the drive to Armonk, Neal wondered why he kept these things, why he just didn't let them go. Because they were memories of better times, and if he didn’t remember, who would?  
  
The drive back home to Brooklyn was pleasant. Again, it was the thought of going to someplace where he knew he belonged. Someplace that was his, that was untainted by bad decisions, bad memories. As he crossed over the Tappan Zee, Neal caught a moment’s glimpse of the New York City skyline and smiled at the happiness the sight brought. Yes, this was going to be his home for a long time to come.  
  
Suddenly, the thought of dinner with the Burkes tomorrow night wasn’t something to be endured, something to get out of. It was an evening that he should anticipate. There was a good wine shop near the office, and he'd already stocked his wine rack with some good bottles. He’d take a few as a gift, and maybe stop at the Italian bakery that Donna recommended.  
  
Life was good. He was good. And maybe the past would stay where it belonged.  
  
By Sunday afternoon, he was dithering again, but not because he was thinking about canceling. There was box of pastries and bottles of Amarone and Barolo waiting on the hall table. And half his wardrobe was tossed on the bed.  
  
He couldn’t wear a suit and tie – that would be ridiculous for an informal Sunday dinner at home. He pulled out and threw aside a dozen different combinations of shirts and pants and felt utterly ridiculous. Like a high school girl on her first big date. In the end, Neal settled for navy chinos and a pale gray collared shirt. He shoved his bare feet into a pair of loafers and with no small amount of anticipation, left for the Burkes.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth looked at her husband with a combination of pride and worry. The strides he had made this week were astonishing. He no longer tired after the simplest task, and his mental state – which had been positive throughout the entire ordeal – seemed almost stratospheric. She wondered how much of that had to do with the resumption of their sex life.   
  
Biting her lip, El felt her insides clench and her cunt start to flood in the memory of last night. And this morning. It wasn’t that the sex was kinky – though Peter’s near insatiable need was a turn-on all by itself – but that they came together in such complete harmony. It was fierce, it was tender and even when their bodies weren’t in sync, it was still so perfect that the memory of it had the power to steal her breath in arousal.  
  
And with no small amount of willpower, she forced herself to stop thinking about her husband and concentrate on getting ready for their dinner date. She flicked through her closet and selected a sheer blouse in deep blue, sighing in contentment.  
  
“What’s the matter?” El hadn’t heard Peter come up behind her.   
  
“Oh, nothing.”  
  
“Come on, share.” Peter pressed a gentle kiss under her ear. She shivered, and her nipples tightened painfully.  
  
She elbowed him back and took out a pair of low-cut jeans. “Peter, if you don’t stop that, our guest is going to spend the evening wondering why his hosts never answered the door.” El tossed the clothes on the bed and retrieved the bra and panties that matched her blouse. The bra was opaque enough that she didn’t have to worry about her nipples showing.   
  
Peter sat down on the easy chair and watched her dress. He looked good enough to eat in dark blue jeans and a silvery-gray polo that didn’t quite cling to his still too-thin frame. El thought about giving Peter a bit of a show – but considering that she just warned him about their guest’s imminent arrival, that wouldn’t be too fair.  
  
Maybe later.  
  
“Are those for me, or are you thinking about Doctor Symmetrical?”  
  
She looked down to where Peter was pointing. Her nipples were poking up through the satin and were visible under her chiffon shirt. _So much for subtlety._ She raised her chin and looked Peter in the eye and grinned. “Just a bit chilly.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
She didn’t bother to respond, just slicked on some lipstick, a bit of eye shadow, a spritz of perfume, and she was ready for anything.  
  
Peter levered himself out of the chair and held out a hand, “After you, Mrs. Burke.”  
  
Her grin widened as she walked past him. “You’re not being a gentleman, Mr. Burke. You just want to look at my ass.”  
  
She had managed an early Sunday afternoon wedding reception and Peter, newly energized, had done most of the prep work for their dinner date. Not that there was a lot to do – most of the food came from her favorite caterers, who were always eager to supply her with relatively small quantities to encourage future business. The porterhouse steak was from a butcher who only sold grass-fed beef, and that was going on the grill.  
  
All in all – they were ready.   
  
“Want a glass of wine?” Peter had taken a beer for himself.   
  
“Nah – I’ll have a sip of yours.” She grabbed his longneck and took a swallow. They’d become quite the pair of lightweights recently – and a glass of wine on an empty stomach wasn’t such a good idea.   
  
“Nervous?” Peter took his beer back and gave her a searching look.  
  
“A little. It’s been a while since we did this.”  
  
“Yeah.” There was something in Peter’s response that made her curious.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“What if we’re wrong? We’ve never gone into something like this so … blindfolded. And aren’t we being a little careless?”  
  
“Peter, just because you had me under surveillance for a month before you got up the nerve to ask me out doesn’t mean that you have to do a background check on everyone.”  
  
“I know, I know. But still.”  
  
“It’ll be fine, hon. And there’s nothing that says we have to _do_ anything tonight. We’re just welcoming Neal to the neighborhood. Making a new friend.”  
  
Peter laughed, a sharp huff. “Hmm, yes. No reason to expect it to go beyond that.”  
  
El looked at her husband, really looked at him. He was very nervous. Despite all the progress he’d made, she could see how worried he was about failing, faltering. About being less than the sum of himself.  
  
“Peter …” She reached up, a hand cupping the back of his head, the clean silk of his hair threading through her fingers. She kissed him – not with lust, but with the strength of her love and devotion and yes, even admiration.   
  
“You have nothing to worry about, Peter Burke. You just be you.”  
  
He leaned his forehead against hers. “Thank you.”  
  
Elizabeth kissed him again but broke it off when the doorbell rang. As she flitted to the door, Peter grabbed her wrist. “I love you.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
_What the hell are we doing? What the hell am I doing?_  
  
That had been the refrain going through his head since Tuesday, when El told him she invited Neal Caffrey for dinner.  
  
It repeated through his brain like a demented mantra.  
  
But if being shot taught him anything, it was that life came down to a very few moments, and this was one of them.  
  
Satchmo rushed between his legs, nearly tripping him, to greet someone who was clearly now one of his favorite people. His dignity and his balance saved, Peter watched as Neal greeted Elizabeth – handing her a box and a bag, then got on his knees to say hello to the dog.   
  
“I still think you’re wearing bacon-scented cologne.”  
  
“Hey there, Peter.” Neal chuckled and stood up. “Thank you for the invitation.”  
  
“That was El’s doing – but you’re welcome. Come on in.” He turned and walked into the living room and this time, when Satchmo ran between his legs, he lost his balance.   
  
It wasn’t the first time Peter had fallen, and falling in his own home was a lot easier than falling on the sidewalk or in a store or even walking into a doctor’s office. But falling in front of a guest, honored or not, was humiliating.  
  
“Damn.”  
  
El was at his side in an instant. Satch was whimpering and licking his face, trying to buy forgiveness with affection. Neal just held a hand out to him, no fuss, no pity. Peter reached out and took it. He got to his feet and dusted himself off. El stepped back, concerned but understanding.  
  
“And now that the floor show is over, can I get you a drink?”  
  
Neal smiled. “Sure. A beer is fine.”  
  
“You sure? I figured you for a fine wine type of guy.” Peter shook out the aches from his spill and went into the kitchen.  
  
“I am, but I’m in the mood for beer.”  
  
“Then beer it is. Any preferences?”  
  
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”   
  
Peter opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles. He opened both and handed one to Neal.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Peter wasn’t ordinarily a man who got was at a loss for words, but he felt a little awkward and tongue-tied at the moment. Maybe because he still felt that crazy, instant attraction. “So – settling in?”  
  
Neal smiled. “Yeah – it’s good to be back here.”  
  
“Back here? You’re from Brooklyn?”  
  
“Not really – I lived in this neighborhood for a few years when I was growing up. My mother taught at Pratt in the late 1980’s. Brooklyn was very different then.”  
  
“Hmm – yeah. It was affordable.” Peter chuckled. “Your mother is an artist?”  
  
“A photographer, actually. She passed away about ten years ago.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Peter wanted to say something more, but didn’t quite know what.  
  
“Thanks.” Neal took a sip of his beer. “I lived on this exact block from the time I was eleven until I was sixteen. We lived with Ellen – Dr. Parker – she and my mom had been roommates at Vassar. It’s been like coming home. No – not like. I _have_ come home.”  
  
Peter smiled. “El and I moved here about ten years ago – just before Cobble Hill became the new ‘it’ neighborhood. It’s changed a little. More yuppies now, but it’s still nice.”  
  
It was Neal’s turn to chuckle. “And you’re not yuppies?”  
  
“Well … not precisely. I’m not exactly young.”  
  
“You’re not old either.”  
  
Peter wasn’t sure what, if anything, Neal’s appreciative look meant. But he didn’t have time to think about it. Elizabeth joined them in the kitchen. She took one look at the beers in their hands and shook her head.  
  
“What’s the matter, hon?”  
  
“Oh, nothing.” She nudged him gently and opened the fridge, pulling out bowls and dishes.   
  
“Neal – I hope you’re hungry.”   
  
Watching her work her way around the kitchen, putting bowls and plates into their hands and then pushing them out onto the patio, Peter couldn’t help but feel that Elizabeth had some kind of magic about her. Just her presence eased the awkwardness between them.  
  
The chatter flowed smoothly between them and Peter wondered how and when Elizabeth became such a skilled interrogator. Or maybe it was just her conversational skills; she wasn’t extracting any of Neal’s personal information. At least, not yet.  
  
When El went back inside, Neal didn’t hesitate to comment. “Your wife is … awesome.” He shook his head.  
  
Peter grinned. “Yeah, I know. She’s … well, there really aren’t words to convey my feelings.” He took a sip of his beer to cover the swell of emotion.  
  
“How long have your been married?”  
  
“It’ll be twelve years, October. There are days that I can’t remember what my life was like before and there are days when it seems like we’re barely out of our honeymoon.”  
  
“You’re one of the lucky ones – don’t half of all marriages end up in divorce?”  
  
“I’ve heard that statistic, but it also means that half of all marriages last.”  
  
“You’re a ‘glass half-full’ kind of guy.”  
  
“I am, it seems.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have expected it – given your profession.”  
  
Peter was surprised that Neal mentioned that, given his obvious distaste for it. “I don’t think being in law enforcement means I have to be a pessimist.”  
  
“No – I would have thought that dealing with the criminal element day-in, day-out would make you expect the dark side to triumph. That your suspect is guilty, regardless.”  
  
Peter wondered at the hint of bitterness but didn’t pursue it. “Hmmm, maybe. But suspects aren’t chosen at random, we don’t decide that someone’s guilty out of convenience. The justice system requires proof, evidence. And I’ve always prided myself on having an open mind – and I expect my team to have the same qualities.”  
  
“Innocent until proven guilty?” There was now more than a hint of bitterness there. Peter was becoming convinced that Neal Caffrey had some prior run-in with the FBI and it didn’t go well for him. But Neal was a guest, and Elizabeth would kill him if he started digging.  
  
“It’s more than that. It’s about getting it right, not being right.” Peter sat back, a wave of longing sweeping over him.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Neal must have noticed his distraction.  
  
“I’ve been away from the FBI for a long time – and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go back.” He shifted, lifting – or trying to – his leg.  
  
“This wasn’t recent?” Neal’s question was reluctant.  
  
Before he could answer, El rejoined them. “No – Peter was shot about ten months ago. He was in the hospital and rehab for nearly four months. He nearly died.”  
  
“Hon – please.” He didn’t really want to break out the violins.  
  
Neal looked at him and then at Elizabeth. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”  
  
“When you say my wife is amazing – ” Peter took El’s hand, “You don’t know the half of it.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
It occurred to Neal, as he sat and watched Peter and Elizabeth Burke, that he really liked them. That they were people worth knowing, people who would make his life better by their simple presence in it. He masked his epiphany with the beer bottle. He still wasn’t sure what they wanted from him, though.  
  
 _She_ had a rather obvious sexual interest. And if Neal wasn’t mistaken, so did _he._ Peter’s was a bit more subtle – now. Neal remembered the smile and look he had received when Peter had brought the puppy in. There was interest there, curiosity and consideration. And attraction.  
  
He didn’t quite know what to make of them as a couple – they were clearly devoted to each other, not only as the two halves of a married couple, but as lovers. Even though his own perceptions about people had proven to be terribly flawed – there was no mistaking the magnetism between Elizabeth and Peter Burke. So where did that leave him?  
  
“What are you thinking?” Elizabeth interrupted his train of thought.  
  
“Just enjoying the evening. And how nice it is – you’d never know you were in Brooklyn.”  
  
“Hmmm, I don’t know about that.” A distant siren punctuated her words, and they all chuckled.  
  
Peter heaved himself out of his chair and started to fuss with the grill. “How do you like your meat?”  
  
Damn it, but he couldn't stop the blush. “Rare – medium rare.”  
  
Elizabeth gave him a smile that seemed full of hidden meaning and Neal hoped she didn’t notice his pinked cheeks. Peter didn’t say anything.  
  
Neal watched as Peter handled the grill with skill and efficiency, resting on a tall stool when he got tired of standing. He thought about offering to help, but felt that it would be, well, inappropriate. As the food cooked, they talked about inconsequentialities – the new arena in the Atlantic Yards and whether the relocation of the Nets would be good for the neighborhood. The conversation turned serious as they touched on politics. Neal was surprised to learn that both of his hosts were not-so-closet lefties, with strong opinions about not only the importance of government oversight of the banks and financial industry, the need for government to support and encourage individual achievement.  
  
“But just as long as they stay out of our bedrooms.” Neal’s eyes widened at Peter’s deliberate use of the plural.   
  
“And our bodies.” Elizabeth chimed in, just as emphatically.  
  
Neal tried a conversational gambit. “It looks like the Supreme Court’s going to take up marriage equality this session. What do you think the odds are that DOMA is going to be struck down?”  
  
Peter turned the steaks and growled, “I don't how good the odds are, but think it’s about damn time.” He gave Neal a level stare and Neal couldn’t help but shiver as their eyes locked.  
  
“Yeah.” His concurrence was lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was weird, but he was aroused by Peter’s gaze. He felt his nipples harden into painful points and swallowed, hoping that the bulge in his crotch wasn’t obvious.  
  
Elizabeth crossed into his field of vision to hand Peter a tray for the meat, breaking the connection. Neal took a deep breath and willed his body to settle down.  
  
Conversation was abandoned in favor of the excellent food, and by the time Neal waved off Elizabeth’s offer of some more salad, he was afraid that his pants would burst. “I haven’t eaten like this … I can’t remember when.” He held back an appreciative belch. “Thank you.”  
  
El smiled and took his plate. “Why don’t you and Peter take Satch for a walk, I’ll get this cleaned up and we’ll consider dessert.”  
  
“Hon –” Peter stood, attempting to gather up their plates.   
  
“Shoo. I can handle this, and the dog does need to be walked. And so do you.” She gave his leg a look.  
  
Neal watched the by-play and smiled. Yes, he definitely liked Peter and Elizabeth Burke, but he still wanted to know what they wanted from him.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Peter side-eyed Neal as he went to fetch Satchmo's leash. "You don't have to come with me."  
  
"No – I could use a walk, too. If just to avoid falling into an embarrassing food coma." Neal grinned.  
  
Satch cooperated by jumping up – behavior that Peter knew he should discourage – but it made it so much easier to get the leash on. His leg had gotten a little too stiff to bend gracefully, and he'd rather not embarrass himself again by falling over. He took his cane and opened the door, letting Satchmo lead the way. "Come on, then."  
  
DeKalb Avenue was a little quieter at this hour, but people were still strolling along, a few teenagers were surfing the asphalt on skateboards. It was late June and at nine o'clock, the sun was still a golden shimmer against the deepening blue of the evening sky.   
  
Peter thought this was a reasonable version of paradise.   
  
They walked in companionable silence, until Neal was the one to break it.  
  
“Thank you for dinner.”   
  
Peter chuckled. “You sound like a sixteen year-old who just remembered his manners.”  
  
Neal laughed too. “Yeah, well – manners are good and I was sort of at a loss for words.”  
  
“Somehow, I don’t think that happens too often to you.” Satchmo paused and lifted a leg. Peter rested on the cane, hoping the ache in his leg wasn’t presaging another major cramp.  
  
“You’d be surprised.”  
  
The ache eased, Satchmo finished and they continued walking.  
  
“So, what’s on your mind?” It wasn’t hard to see that Neal had questions, obvious questions.  
  
“What’s the deal with you and your wife, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
  
“And if I did mind?”  
  
Neal huffed a sigh. “Look – I’m getting some vibes here. And I don’t really want to step into something blind. Or be completely off base.”  
  
Peter was a little surprised that Neal was so forthright. In the decade and more of their marriage, he and Elizabeth had about a dozen semi-serious relationships. “Semi-serious” was the operative term – men and woman who took up residence in their lives and beds, but never in their hearts. People who were more than casual lovers but less than true commitments, although there were one or two that could have been more than semi-serious. And each one of them knew the rules before they started. Neal didn’t – and Peter had the feeling that Neal was going to be something completely and utterly different from any other experience.   
  
Satchmo stopped again and Peter turned to Neal. “Have you ever heard the word ‘polyamory’?”  
  
Neal frowned, clearly puzzled. “Is that like polygamy?”  
  
“No – not really. Polyamory is – well – consensual non-monogamy.”   
  
“You and your wife are swingers?” Neal was clearly shocked.  
  
Peter shook his head. This was always the reaction. “Swinging – I hate that word. We don’t have sex with other people as casual recreation.” He looked over at Neal, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. Which was good, because Peter had been afraid that he was going to run for the hills.  
  
“I find it hard to wrap my brain around this. You and your wife have an open marriage?”  
  
“No – it’s not quite that either, but ‘open’ is a better term than ‘swinging’. Mostly we share other partners, but sometimes we’ll each have our own relationship.”  
  
“Share?” The question in Neal’s voice was obvious.  
  
“Yes, share. We’re both bisexual.” They reached the far end of the block and turned around. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in.”  
  
Neal gave a dry laugh. “I’ll say. And would I be wrong in guessing that you’re – well – interested in me?”  
  
Peter leaned on his cane, this moment as welcome as it was unexpected. His answer was simple. “No, you’re not wrong. We are interested.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
He didn’t know what to make of Neal’s response. It was noncommittal at best. When Neal didn’t add anything to that single syllable, Peter drew what he thought was an obvious conclusion. “But you’re not particularly interested in us?”  
  
Neal still didn’t reply and Peter’s heart sank. Bitterness and embarrassment churned in his belly. “I see. You’re not interested in _me_.” He tried not to be disappointed. It wasn’t surprising – he was at least a decade and a half older than Neal, broken in body, and probably the wrong sex. “Look – we can forget we had this conversation. I won’t make a nuisance of myself.” Peter tugged on Satchmo’s leash, the puppy was intrigued by each and every sign and pole and tree and they’d never get home at this rate. He wished he could walk faster, that he could get home and close the door on the evening.  
  
He thumped along, all but dragging Satchmo in his haste.   
  
“Hey, hey.” Neal grabbed at his arm. “I am not uninterested – it’s just a lot to take in. We barely know each other.”  
  
Peter stopped, not willing to hope, but willing to listen. “Yeah, I know. But sometimes you just get a feeling. And besides, you were the one who asked. I don’t like playing coy.”   
  
Neal ducked his head. “Yeah, you’re right. And I do appreciate the honesty.”  
  
“But …”  
  
It was almost full dark and they stood under a streetlamp, the orange glow casting almost sickly shadows. “It’s not that I’m uninterested. Far from it. This isn’t something I’ve ever experienced, and I’m …” Neal paused, lips pursed. “I’m intrigued.”  
  
“But?” Peter repeated, this time a question.  
  
“My life hasn’t been the most stable; there are things in my past that continue to make my life difficult.”  
  
Peter was curious, and being who he was, he couldn’t help but ask. “A criminal record?”  
  
“No – not that. Thank god, not that.”   
  
He thought Neal’s response was a little strange, but he said nothing and filed it away. “What is it? Health issues?” Peter hoped not, but that wasn’t insurmountable if they were careful.  
  
“No – not that. I’m clean.”  
  
“Then what?” Peter tried not to press, not to interrogate. The shadows hid too much, and Peter had a gut feeling that Neal was hiding something important.  
  
“I – I was in a difficult relationship a few years ago.” It wasn’t hard to tell that Neal was choosing his words with great care, equivocating.  
  
Peter took a low key approach. “Left you a little gun-shy?”  
  
They started walking back, Neal with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking like a delinquent angel. “That’s one way to put it.”  
  
“Look – we’ve just met and normally I don’t lay the cards out like this.”  
  
“And you’re usually dealing with someone who knows the score?”  
  
“Something like that.” Satchmo paused to water the last tree before the got back to the house. “There’s no rush, no deadlines. We like you, we’re interested in something – it doesn’t have to be …” It was Peter’s turn to find the right words. “Look – we want more than just another sex partner. We want someone in our lives, someone to share things with.”  
  
Neal laughed, skepticism coloring the sound with unpleasant tones. “You’re not going to say the sex is the least of it?”  
  
It was Peter’s turn to laugh, but his was tinged with real amusement. “Hell, no.” _I’d scare you all the way to New Jersey if I told you what my thoughts were on that score_.  
  
“Whew!” Neal pretended to wipe sweat off his brow, the overly dramatic gesture a contrast to his earlier mood.   
  
“But I’m also saying that we don’t have to hop into bed right away. There’s no timetable here.” Peter felt as earnest as a boy scout helping an old woman across the street. “We can be patient.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
It was possibly the strangest conversation he ever had, and also the most arousing. Neal had shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to disguise what was certain to be an embarrassingly obvious development. Had his life taken a normal path, he’d have probably jumped Peter Burke and beaten him to ground, the puppy and the public sidewalk be damned.  
  
As swift as his arousal was, it died just as quickly. His life wasn’t normal and as much as he wanted what was being offered, the idea of a relationship with anyone, male or female, suddenly terrified him. Committing himself – giving control of his life to another person – or in the case of the Burkes, to two other people, letting them make decisions for him sent wave of panic through him. It was an irrational fear, because – despite – everything that happened to him, that wasn’t the way things worked.  
  
The anxious thoughts cascaded through his brain and Neal started to sweat. He looked up and down the street, wondering if any of the doors would open to him if he needed sanctuary.  
  
“Neal? Are you all right?”  
  
Peter’s calm, deep voice cut through the fear.   
  
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m going to head home.” It would be for the best. Give him a chance to regroup, to build up some defenses.  
  
Peter didn't bother to hide his disappointment. “Don’t you want to come back in, have dessert? It’s not like you have far to go.”   
  
He wavered between the desire to run and simple desire.  
  
“At least come in and say goodnight to Elizabeth.” Peter started up the steps, moving a lot slower than he should. When he stumbled on the third step, Neal reached out to catch him.  
  
“I’ve got you, just hold on." He was startled by the heat radiating off of Peter. It wasn't abnormal, it wasn’t feverish. Just simply something he hadn't experienced in a long time.  
  
"Thanks – thought I was going to take another header." Peter turned and sat down on his own stoop with a distinctly relieved thump. Satchmo barked at Neal, as if to tell him to sit down, too.  
  
The front door opened and Elizabeth poked her head out. "There you are, thought you had decided to walk to the airport."  
  
"No, not quite ready for that yet, hon."  
  
"Not by a long shot, mister." Elizabeth smiled at Neal. "Want to take your coffee out here? The evening's nice."  
  
Neal shrugged in agreement. Even in this day and age, Brooklynites still treated the front steps as another living room.  
  
Elizabeth took Satchmo's lead from Peter and went back inside. Neal could hear the dog whining a little about being cut off from the company and all the delightful scents of the great outdoors.  
  
Desperate to make conversation, Neal asked Peter what Elizabeth meant by walking to the airport.  
  
"It's a thing – every year, a group of locals walks from lower Manhattan to JFK. El and I did it one year – one of our former partners thought it would be an interesting thing to do."  
  
"And was it?" Neal was reluctantly intrigued.  
  
"Well, it was interesting, if you like walking for eight hours through some neighborhoods best seen from behind a locked car door," Peter replied with a laugh. "El and I completed it, but Jonathan … he wimped out at the fourth hour and took a cab home. Which pretty much ended that relationship."  
  
"Seems like an odd thing to break up over."  
  
"I think the relationship had run its course. Jon turned out to be a prissy little whiner with a daddy complex. And to be honest, I'm not interested in being anyone’s daddy."  
  
Light streamed down the steps as El joined them. "You’re telling Neal about Jonathan?" She seemed totally unsurprised at that.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He had talents, but they didn't compensate for his faults."   
  
She handed him a cup of espresso. He hoped it was decaf. And even if it wasn't, he was probably going to be up all night thinking about Peter and Elizabeth and what had been so delicately offered to him.  
  
Sitting on the steps, they chatted for another half hour, words falling off into the darkness. After a few minutes of silence, he politely announced, “I think it’s time I said ‘good night’.” He put his cup down and stood, looking down at both of the Burkes’ shining, happy faces. There was something about them, something so pure and stainless and perfect. Elizabeth had a streak of wickedness in her, and Peter was so casually dominant that Neal had to stop himself from offering him anything, everything, but they were good people. Uncommonly good.  
  
If he were smart, he’d run, because he’d end up destroying that goodness, staining them with the corruption that plagued his life.   
  
Elizabeth stood up, too. One step up, she was eye-to-eye with him, and even in the dim glow of the street lamp, he could see that she had something planned, but before he could figure out just what that was, she acted.  
  
And kissed him.  
  
Her lips were soft but determined and he fell into that kiss like a starving man. It had been so damn long. Neal cupped his hands around Elizabeth’s face, gently threading his fingers through her hair. She tasted like coffee, dark, a touch bitter and absolutely delicious. Her mouth opened under his, her tongue flirted and retreated. He felt her whole body lean into him, giving him everything, taking everything.   
  
When she stepped back, Neal was chilled and he shivered in the warm night air. Elizabeth licked her lips; she had stars in her eyes and a smile that promised heaven.  
  
He wanted to believe that promise.  
  
“Are you going to kiss my husband now?”   
  
Neal reared back, startled by the question.   
  
“Or don’t you want to?” Elizabeth inadvertently echoed Peter’s earlier assumption.  
  
“I – ”  
  
She gave him a push, just a little shove, hard enough that he stumbled back into Peter. A dangerous thing, since the man wasn’t so steady on his feet. But Peter caught him. Unlike his wife, there was no mischief in his expression, just a grave intensity, a yearning too akin to what Neal was feeling at this moment.  
  
Peter didn’t kiss him. He simply raised a hand to stroke his face. Neal licked his lips and Peter’s thumb came to rest on the lower one, slowly wiping the moisture back and forth. His touch was surprisingly delicate, but for all that delicacy, there was nothing tentative in the gesture. Peter knew what he wanted, what he was going to do, and he just didn’t want to scare him off.  
  
Neal smiled, an unspoken invitation. Peter didn’t accept it right away. He continued to watch him, head tilted to one side, like some curious and fierce predator. Just as he’d been one step below Elizabeth, he was one step above Peter and they were at equal height. It was a matter of inches; he could just lean forward and press his lips to Peter’s, no bending, no tilting. He didn’t know what he was waiting for.  
  
So he did.   
  
Peter’s kiss was different; it started with a surprised huff of laughter. Neal liked that – the vibration went through his whole body, pooling in his groin. His lips were firm, there was power there, restrained – barely. He was still capable of coherent thought, otherwise he would simply have surrendered when Peter’s other hand slipped around his waist. He wasn’t shackled, he wasn’t being held _there_ , he was just being held. It was lovely and unique and Neal didn’t want it to end.  
  
His lips opened under Peter’s, they just fit together – mouth and body and it scared him. The terror of this perfection was subdued by the simple pleasure of this human contact. When Peter broke their kiss, Neal’s lips tried to follow.  
  
He opened his eyes, not even aware they’d been shut. Peter looked as devastated as he felt. His chest rose and fell, as if he’d just sprinted to the finish. Neal licked his lips again, this time tasting the essence of Peter Burke. He liked the flavor, perhaps too much.  
  
“I think I’d better go.” Neal stepped down – just one step, then another and another until he was on the sidewalk. “Tomorrow – work. Early.”  
  
Peter laughed at him – at his incoherence, but it wasn’t mean. “Then, good night.”   
  
Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “Good night, sweetie. Call us?”  
  
Neal nodded. They looked so perfect, matching smiles, matching joy. It would have been so damn easy to walk back up those stairs, into the house, into their bed. “Yes, I will.”  
  
He turned and walked down the block, feeling the Burkes’ gaze following him, a comforting accompaniment on his short journey home.  
  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Yes, life did come down to a few important moments: the instant he decided that he’d rather become an FBI agent than be a broken down ex-baseball player, the day he screwed up the courage to ask a very beautiful assistant manager of the art gallery he had been investigating out to dinner, the afternoon he went to serve a warrant and was shot half a dozen times. And the moment he decided to trust his instincts about his dog’s new veterinarian.   
  
Whatever happened next, whether Neal decided to share his life with them or not, Peter knew that nothing was going to be the same after this night. He caught El’s eye, her smile was tinged with the same fatalism that he was feeling.  
  
They watched Neal as he walked down the now-quiet block, finally disappearing into the shadows.  
  
“That went well.” El bent down and picked up their discarded coffee cups.  
  
“Yeah, it did.” Peter held the door for her.  
  
He did his usual checks of the house, locking up and setting the alarm. Cobble Hill was a good neighborhood, but it never hurt to keep vigilant. El had once accused him of being a professional paranoid, but it really wasn’t the case. She was just too precious to him to risk.  
  
The thought brought him up short. He _was_ too trusting of Neal Caffrey. There was something there, something in his past that was troubling. Neal himself alluded to it. But he had promised Elizabeth that he wouldn’t run a background check or have anyone at the office do it. She was adamant, and there was a part of him that didn’t blame her. No one deserved to have their privacy invaded.  
  
But on the other hand, if there was something in Neal’s past that presented a danger to them, or more importantly, to Elizabeth, didn’t he have the right to know?  
  
“I don’t like the expression on your face, hon.”  
  
She startled him.  
  
“Just thinking.”  
  
“About Neal?”  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“You don’t look happy.” She seemed surprised.  
  
“Just concerned. I would really like to run a background check – wouldn’t it be better to know if there are problems?”  
  
She gave him a considering look. “Unless you’re prepared to give Neal your complete history and mine, you’re not going to do that.” El’s tone was sharp.  
  
Peter felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He didn’t want to argue with her. He muttered, “I have nothing to hide.”   
  
“Peter – don’t. It’s not necessary.” Her tone was pleading, now.  
  
He disagreed, but said nothing more on the subject.  
  
El smiled and kissed him. “Come to bed.” She held out her hand, and he trailed her up the stairs, admiring how her ass swung and bounced with each step.

  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal didn’t sleep after he got home from the Burkes’. His brain was filled with the taste and scent of Peter and Elizabeth. He could still feel their hands on him, hot and strong. He rolled over, trying to erase the lingering sensations. It didn’t help.  
  
He screwed his eyes shut, like a child afraid of the monster in the closet, except that this wasn’t precisely a monster, just something that terrified him.  
  
It would be so easy to give his heart, his whole being over to the Burkes. He actually believed that they were wise enough, strong enough, not to damage him. But he’d been there before – he’d given himself over to someone – someone who he believed was good and strong and wise – and that nearly destroyed him.  
  
The memories rushed back, obliterating the sweet joy of his evening with Peter and Elizabeth. They were bitter, like burnt coffee. They fouled him, tainting his hopes, staining his dreams.  
  


Maybe if he wasn’t still grieving for his mother, maybe if his best friend, Moz, hadn’t taken off for parts unknown, maybe if he hadn’t felt so adrift, despite a grueling schedule. Maybe, just maybe he would have been a little wiser, a little less needy. Maybe he would have seen things as they were, and not how he wanted them to be.

He wasn’t a naive young thing. He’d done this dance before, he flirted like an expert and the response he got was gratifying. Matthew was dark, but he wasn’t tall, he wasn’t conventionally handsome. But there was something about him that intrigued Neal. His gut told him to run, but other organs – the ones directly north and south of the gut – overruled.

He should have listened to his gut.

Neal fell for Matthew Keller and fell hard. He was starting his third year of veterinary school, living on Riverside Drive, not that far from school. His landlady, June, didn't like Matthew. It wasn't that Neal was in a sexual relationship with another man – not in the least. June was as open-minded and as accepting as they came, but she just didn't like him. She thought he was sly, deceitful, that he was totally wrong for Neal.

He had stars in his eyes and disagreed.

"Matthew's an FBI agent – he's as upright as they come."

June shook her head. "In my world, the FBI is not populated by shining knights on horseback – they lie and cheat and steal worse than the NYPD – and get away with it more because they're Feds."

"Matthew's not like that." Neal had insisted.

June just smiled sadly. "I hope you're right."

  
  
He wasn't.  
  


They’d been together for about three months, and if Neal wasn’t blissfully happy, he still wasn’t ready to see the warning signs. Matthew’s need to control his every moment, his obsessive jealousy were not the indications of an abusive controller, but of a man totally in love.

The first time Matthew hit him, Neal couldn't believe it. In a way, he still couldn't.

He had come home, which was no longer the penthouse apartment on Riverside, but a third-floor walk-up in Washington Heights. Neal spoke Spanish, and had spent a few minutes chatting with Marco, a young gay man who worked days at the hospital and spent his nights cruising the local clubs. It was a little after six when he let himself into the apartment.

Matthew was sitting at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers. "Where the hell were you?" His tone was low and vicious, unlike anything he had ever heard come out of his lover's mouth.

"Just downstairs, Marco was telling me about …" The rest of the sentence was lost when Matthew struck him. Hard, across the face.

"I told you to stay away from that little slut. Did he blow you under the stairs, or did you suck him off?"

Neal couldn't say anything – he was in too much shock. He stood there, a hand on his aching cheek. He was dazed, not from the pain. Finally, the words came back. "Matthew. You hit me." He sounded like a five year-old, stating the obvious.

His lover was instantly contrite and took him in his arms. "I'm sorry, so very sorry. I was worried, and I guess I'm a little jealous." His lips ghosted over the blossoming bruise. "I promise, this will never happen again."

That night, Matthew lavished love and attention on Neal, cared for him with a laser-like focus and by the time they were ready for bed, Neal not only forgave Matthew, he even apologized for being late, for letting Marco way-lay him. "But you have to know, there's no one for me but you."

Matthew's eyes glowed as he leaned over Neal. "You're damn right – you're mine, and you better never forget that. You're mine forever."

  
  
He shivered. At the time, it was a thrilling statement, a declaration of love and commitment. He should have known better.  
  


_It was two weeks before Matthew struck him again, hitting him for no apparent reason._

_This time, he didn't hit him on the face – those bruises Matthew’s fist had left took weeks to fade and caused too many questions. Instead, Matthew punched him in the stomach. When Neal was doubled over in pain, he kicked him. And kept on kicking him._

_Neal passed out from the agony._

_When he came to, Matthew was fucking him, holding him in his arms, telling him how much he loved him, but that he shouldn't do that again._

_"Do what? What did I do?" Neal whimpered, confused and helpless._

_Matthew didn't answer. He pressed his hands into the bruises and came._

_The beatings became a regular thing. Neal would do something that pissed Matthew off, and he'd pay for it. Or even nothing at all. Of course, Matthew was sorry afterwards, he'd shower him with love and praise, he'd tell him he was the most precious thing in the world. But there was no love there, just a sick sort of dependency._

_Neal tried to leave once, a week after his graduation from Columbia Veterinary School. They'd been together for two years and Neal didn't think he'd survive another two months. He made it as far as the last exit on the New Jersey Turnpike, but Matthew had simply contacted the State Troopers and had him pulled over. He had used his badge – abused his badge and told them that Neal was a material witness and needed to be held until he could be transported back to New York by Matthew himself._

_"Sweetheart …"_

_Neal hated when Matthew used that tone of voice – that false affection. "Let me go, please." He begged and pulled away, but Matthew just tightened his grip, squeezing his wrist hard enough to leave bruises. But Neal kept tugging and Matthew gripped him harder until something snapped. He didn’t remember much about the drive back to New York except that he vomited at least once from the pain._

_With his broken wrist, there was no way he could start work. He had a job lined up at an emergency clinic on Riverside, not too far from where he used to live. Of course, Matthew wasn’t happy that he had gotten the job because of his friendship with June. He didn’t like that Neal was still in contact with her and after Matthew dragged him back, Neal figured it would be wise not to talk to her anymore._

_He called his would-be employers and explained what happened – that he broke his wrist roller-blading. He would need follow-up surgery – possibly pins – and he wouldn’t be able to start work for at least two months. They were most regretful, but they wouldn’t be able to keep the slot open for him. They wished him well, though._

_“It’s for the best, sweetheart. I don’t like the idea of you working for such a low-class outfit. You deserve better.” Matthew stroked his head, tangling his fingers in his curls._

_Neal didn’t say anything. These days, it was just easier not to. He didn’t understand how this happened, how he just became this passive thing, this punching bag. What happened to his sense of self? What happened to his will?_

  
  
The memories wouldn’t stop coming, the poison was still as potent, still as destructive. Neal got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. Ellen had left the contents of her liquor cabinet behind, and if ever there was a need for scotch, this was it. He poured himself two fingers, and would have downed it in a single gulp but he remembered that this wasn’t his life anymore. He had paid for his bad choices already, and he wasn’t going to keep paying.  
  
Neal emptied the scotch down the sink, carefully washed and rinsed the glass, positioning it on the drain board as if his life depended on it. The bottle of Johnny Walker was returned to the cabinet. He made a cup of coffee instead. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any sleep tonight.  
  
The brew was bitter, distinct from the excellent espresso that Elizabeth Burke gave him just a few hours ago.  
  
If he sat and concentrated on the sounds of the Brooklyn neighborhood, the way the streetlights cast their thin shadows, the aroma of bad coffee and old house, he could remember the feel of the Burkes – their gentle hands, their cautious need, their undeniable hunger.   
  
Matthew had never touched him in Brooklyn; he never hurt him under this moon.   
  


“Neal?”

That was his name, and the voice was familiar.

Without a job, with nothing to do but wait for Matthew to come home, Neal had taken to filling his days with trips to the Cloisters. It was within walking distance and a long ago gift of a life membership meant he didn’t need to pay for admission. Matthew didn’t let him have any money, except for what was needed for groceries, and every penny of that had to be accounted for. Otherwise …

Neal looked away from the Unicorn Tapestries to find an old friend. His oldest friend. Mozzie.

“Hey there.” His voice was hoarse – Matthew had choked him last night. It was just rough sex. “When did you get back to New York?”

“About a week ago. Bern was boring, and there’s only so much chocolate a man can eat.”

They went way back. Moz had been his first college roommate. It was an odd pairing – a graduate student in molecular chemistry and a too-young, very naïve sixteen year-old college freshman. On paper, it shouldn’t have worked, but in reality, it did. Mozzie was, he admitted, more than slightly paranoid. He had no intention of working for the government or their stooges/controllers – the big corporations. But it never hurt to know how things worked, and he made a point of taking Neal under his wing and giving him an education that the professors at Harvard never could.

“But you, _mon frère_ , look like shit.”

Neal shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re lying.”

Even though Mozzie’s tone was joking, he flinched at the accusation. He couldn’t stop himself. And Moz saw it. His face, round as an egg, smooth as a baby’s bottom, turned impossibly hard. He all but lifted Neal to his feet; his anger growing more obvious when he took in the cast around Neal’s wrist. "Who did this to you?"

Neal didn't answer. He flinched again, though, when Moz lifted his chin with two gentle fingers to examine the bruises on his throat.

"Neal." Moz didn't say anything else.

"Don't pity me, Moz. Don't fucking pity me."

"What's his name? That's all I need."

"You can't help me. He'll only hurt you, or worse."

"Have I taught you nothing?"

"Moz – he's a Suit. A powerful one. Why do you think I haven't left him? I've tried. He dragged me back, and he had help. He'll always have help."

"He's in the police?"

Neal snorted. "Worse. He's FBI. The king of Suits."

Moz helped him to his feet. "Let's walk. You never know what ears these walls have."

They wandered down to the Heather Garden, to a secluded wall overlooking the Hudson River. Neal watched the gulls swooping down out of the clear summer sky and wished he could be just as free. But freedom was impossible – unless death was freedom. And that was a step he wasn't prepared to take. Not yet.

"His name, Neal." Moz's implacable tone broke through Neal's dark thoughts.

"Matthew Keller. He's a special agent with the Organized Crime unit. He doesn't regularly work out of the field office downtown, though – he's a street agent."

"I don't want you to go home tonight – I don't want you to go back home at all."

"Moz, you don't know what he's capable of. He'll hurt you, he'll kill you and make it look like an accident. Or worse – he'll implicate you in something and you'll never be able to get out from under it. He'll destroy your life."

His friend laughed, it wasn't a happy sound. "I've been off the grid for too long for anyone to get their claws into me." Moz pulled out a pad and pencil, wrote something down and handed it to Neal. It was an address in Long Island City, and a string of numbers. "It's a safe house and the code for the security system. You'll go there now and you'll stay there until I tell you that it's all right to leave, got it?"

Neal shook his head. "Moz – I'll be living there forever. It will never be safe."

"Trust me, Neal. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Neal ducked his head and allowed himself a small smile. "There was that time, with the thing in the place – you remember?"

"Yeah." Moz looked pleased that he could still joke. "You need money?"

He flushed, his humor chased away by embarrassment. He didn't answer.

Moz handed him a wad of cash. "Take a cab to Penn Station. Then get on the subway to Jamaica. Take the Air Train to LaGuardia and then get a cab to the corner of Steinway Street and Astoria Boulevard. Walk to the safe house, it's three blocks north of the factory." Moz pulled out a cell phone and handed it to him. "It's a burner. I'll call you when it's safe."

They walked down to the traffic circle at the base of Fort Tryon Park. Moz hailed a cab for him and all but pushed him into it. "Remember what I told you, okay?"

Neal nodded and as the car pulled away from the curb and headed down Fort Washington Avenue, he turned to look back at Moz, standing like a sentinel, resolute. He hoped against hope that Moz could actually do something, that he convince Matthew to let him go.

But in his heart, he knew that Moz was only going to put himself in danger and Neal just wished he was strong enough, brave enough to have told his friend, no. But he wasn't – and he'd pay for this defiance, and Matthew would find a way to destroy Moz, too.

  
  
It was almost dawn, and Neal felt as wasted as if he spent the night on a bender. He had his share of those. But no amount of alcohol could help him forget two years in hell.   
  


Ten days after he locked the door of Mozzie's safe house – an abandoned piano factory – Mozzie called him. Neal had been ready to leave, worried beyond measure about his friend. Only the thought of what could be waiting outside stopped him.

"It's done." That was all Moz would tell him. "You're safe."

"Did you … kill him?"

Moz didn’t answer that question. "Neal, you're safe. But I'd leave New York for a while. Take the train somewhere that’s not here. Set yourself up in another city. New York isn't the best place for you right now."

As much as he pressed, Moz wouldn't tell him what he did to get Matthew Keller to let him go. He watched the news obsessively; there was nothing about the death of an FBI agent, or any news about any FBI agent, for that matter.

Later that afternoon, he met Moz at a busy diner off of Grand Central Parkway. Moz handed him a small duffle bag. "I think you'll need this."

Neal looked inside – there was a change of clothes and more importantly, his driver's license and his passport, two things that Matthew had taken from him. There was also a thick envelope which Neal opened. It contained an inch-high stack of hundred dollar bills and a key.

"I've had your things put into storage at the usual place in Armonk. It's paid up for ten years.”

"Moz …"

"Don't say another word, Neal. We're friends. This is what friends do for each other."

Neal wanted to cry.

"Keep in touch – and if you need me, call." Moz dropped a twenty on the table – a generous tip for two cups of coffee – and left.

Neal sat there, stunned, unwilling to believe that the long nightmare was over.

 

  
  
It was still hard to believe. Neal had spent eight years running from evil, looking over his shoulder, being afraid. And he was still afraid – not that Matthew Keller would come back, but that he’d find himself in the same hell that Mozzie had rescued him from. He wanted Peter and Elizabeth too much – he wanted to take what they offered with his whole heart. He was terrified that if he walked into their arms, he'd lose everything again.   
  
And that was unbearable.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
A week passed, and then another. There was no word from Neal.  
  
They did get a postcard from the veterinary practice, reminding them that Satchmo was scheduled for his surgery on the fourteenth, and he was not to have anything to eat or drink at least twelve hours before the surgery.  
  
El pinned it to the bulletin board with a mournful sigh. “He seemed so … interested.”  
  
Peter took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “I know – but …” He didn’t complete the thought.  
  
“Yeah. Poly relationships aren’t for everyone.” Especially for someone who was not part of the life. “Asking him, on our very first date, was probably too much, too soon."  
  
“He could have at least called to say he wasn’t interested, instead of leaving us hanging. That would have been the right thing to do.”  
  
El shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too embarrassed – there are people who go for that whole avoidance thing, you know.”  
  
Peter looked as sad and disappointed as she felt. “I know we didn’t give him a timeline – we told him the invitation was open-ended. But still…”  
  
“Maybe when I bring Satch in, I can talk with him, find out what went wrong.” Elizabeth mused.  
  
“If you want to try, that’s fine. But don’t push it. We don’t have to beg anyone.”   
  
“No, we don’t. But I still think that Neal was very interested – maybe all he needs is a little nudge.”  
  
Peter heaved himself up and out of his chair. “Work your wiles on him, then.” He bent a little and kissed her. “But don’t be too hurt if he turns you down.”  
  
“No one turns Elizabeth Burke down and lives to tell the tale.” She strived for a lighthearted tone, but there was definitely a thread of steel there.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter saw Neal one evening, three weeks after their date and a few days before Satchmo's surgery. He was walking the dog, feeling strong and healthy. His cane was relegated to the back of the front hall closet and his physical therapist was almost ready to sign off on his readiness to commence a back-to-duty fitness routine.   
  
Satch spotted Neal first, barking and pulling at the leash. Peter looked across the street, the direction where the dog was pulling. Neal was sitting at a table at a trendy cafe that had opened earlier this year. He was smiling at the server and looking just as gorgeous as Peter remembered. Satchmo barked again, and Neal looked up, spotting Peter.   
  
Peter smiled and waved, but before he could cross the street, Neal got up and left the table. He thought that Neal was coming around to meet him. By the time he got to the cafe, Neal had disappeared. He had left a few dollars on the table, and when Peter questioned his server, the young man had said that patron, Neal, had gotten an urgent call and had to leave.  
  
Peter supposed there could have been an emergency with a patient, but Neal had seen him and left right away. The message was clear – he didn't want to know them. For whatever reason, Neal decided that he and Elizabeth, their offer of friendship, companionship – even without any physical relationship – was not something he wanted. And apparently, he didn't want to face them.  
  
Peter understood avoidance; he dealt with all the time. Suspects and witnesses were rarely eager to talk to the FBI and tried to dodge him whenever possible. He just hadn't expected this behavior from Neal.  
  
Satchmo let out a disappointed whimper.   
  
Peter looked at his dog. “Yeah – that could have gone better.” He gave a gentle tug on the leash and headed home, disappointed and humiliated.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal was appalled at his own behavior.   
  
He spotted Peter and Satchmo before they had seen him. It had only been three weeks since he had dinner with the Burkes, but in that time, it looked like Peter had regained his health. Even from a distance, he could see how his chest and arms had filled out, his shoulders seems broader, stronger. There was no sign of his cane either; he walked with the assurance of a man who was comfortable in his world.  
  
For the first time in half a lifetime, Neal found himself longing for a sketchpad and sharpened pencil. He had some artistic talent. He was, after all, his mother’s son. He might have even made a career of it, except that he could do only one thing really well – reproduce other artists’ works. Give him an easel and set him in front of an Old Master, and he could copy it brushstroke for brushstroke. Ask him to create something original, and he failed miserably.  
  
He had always enjoyed sketching, random faces and street scenes. He just hadn’t – not since Matthew, who hadn't liked him doing anything that wasn't focused on him. The familiar feeling of self-disgust that accompanied those memories rose in his gorge.   
  
He heard Satchmo bark and looked across the street. Peter waved. He wanted to wave back, he wanted to sit with Peter and have a cup of coffee and talk about the news of the world, talk about the day-to-day trials and tribulations of being a small business owner. He wanted to ask Peter how his rehab was going, tell him that he looked really good.   
  
He wanted to fall to his knees in front of Peter and rest his head on his thigh, feel Peter's hands stroking his head, soothing away all his hurt, making him feel safe, loved. Giving him a place where he belonged. He wanted to submit to this man, give himself over to him.   
  
And that would be disastrous.   
  
Self-disgust gave way to fear, and he took to his feet. Dropping a few dollars on the table to compensate the waiter, Neal fled – back through the cafe and then out the side door, disappearing into the foot traffic, away from Peter Burke.   
  
He needed to call Mozzie. He needed the sanity check that only his oldest friend could provide. He needed to be reminded how dangerous it was to give himself over like that.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth was furious at Neal Caffrey. Not for ignoring them, for having a lack of good manners to call or send a note telling them that he wasn’t interested. Not even that he was such a goddamned coward. She was angry that he hurt and humiliated Peter.  
  
“It’s okay, hon. We put him on the spot – and he’s just too embarrassed to face us.”  
  
She hrumphed, “It’s still not acceptable – no one does that to you.”  
  
Peter smiled. “No one puts Baby in the corner?”  
  
She had to grin back. “Okay – okay. But if I ever see Doctor Symmetrical again, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”  
  
“Well, one of us will see him. Satchmo’s surgery is the day after tomorrow.”  
  
“Hmmm, you’re right. But I’m going to bring him in. You’re too soft-hearted.”  
  
Peter raised an eyebrow at her. “I might be a little insulted …”  
  
El finished that thought. “If that wasn’t true.” Her husband might be relentless when it came to the pursuit of lawbreakers, but he wasn’t ruthless. He understood that justice wasn’t just about enforcing the cold, black letter of the law. El was never sure if that approach spilled over and colored his civilian life, or if this worldview was what made him such a stellar agent.   
  
It didn’t matter – Peter was inclined to be fair, and when it came to matters of the heart, a little too fair. He’d probably end up apologizing to Neal, when Neal Caffrey needed a good telling off instead.   
  
All of her plans to lay into Neal Caffrey – in the most civilized fashion – were for naught. Elizabeth brought Satchmo to the vet’s office at three PM as instructed and asked if she could speak with Dr. Caffrey. Donna, the receptionist, was doubtful that the doctor would have time today; he had a full schedule. Elizabeth could wait if she wanted, but there was no guarantee.  
  
She sat in the waiting room, watching the last patients of the day – a poodle with gas, and an enormously pregnant collie – were escorted into examination rooms. She watched as other animals and their owners came out, mostly happy. Even the gassy poodle seemed less gassy and the collie was still pregnant.  
  
El waited and waited, looking up at Donna, a question in her eyes. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the clinic and came out five minutes later, a rueful smile on her lips. “I’m afraid that Doctor Caffrey won’t be able to see you today. He’s scrubbing up for surgery.”  
  
She did her best to curb her annoyance.  
  
Donna asked, “Is there a problem with Satchmo?”  
  
 _A little late to be asking that,_ Elizabeth thought. “No, it’s a private matter. I’ll try to catch Dr. Caffrey when I pick Satch up tomorrow.”  
  
Donna nodded. “I’ll tell the doctor that you want to talk with him. Maybe he’ll have time tomorrow.”  
  
El nodded, but she figured that Neal would be just as busy no matter what time of day she came to see him. She’d pick Satchmo up and ask her dog-owning friends if they could recommend a vet. There was no way she’d be bringing Satchmo back here. Not after this.   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Three days after Neal had neutered Satchmo Burke and hid out in his office while the dog’s owners both came to pick him up, Mozzie arrived, ready to do battle on his behalf. The email that he sent a few days after dodging Peter had been short and to the point:  
  
 _I think I’m in trouble. Can you come to Brooklyn?_  
  
Mozzie’s response was swift:  
  
 _I’ll be there as soon as possible._  
  
He came home late to find Moz waiting for him in the deepening shadows of his dining room, enjoying his last bottle of Brunello and some particularly fine aged parmesan.   
  
“You okay?”  
  
Neal didn’t bother with the lights. He poured himself a glass and sat down. “Yeah – I think.”  
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
Trust Moz to get right to the heart of the matter. “I – I met someone.”  
  
“I gathered, from your email. Has he hurt you?”  
  
Neal shook his head, embarrassed now. “No. I haven’t given them a chance.”   
  
“Them?”  
  
He bit his lip; he hadn’t intended to tell Mozzie _that_ quite so soon.  
  
“Spill, Neal.”  
  
He took a deep breath and plunged in. “They are the owners of a patient of mine. A yellow Labrador named Satchmo.”  
  
Moz raised an eyebrow at this irrelevant bit of information.  
  
“Peter and Elizabeth Burke. They …” Neal wasn’t sure how to put this. “They want me …”  
  
“They’re swingers?” Moz sounded more curious than shocked.  
  
“No – they hate that word. They’re polyamorous.”   
  
Moz continued to surprise him. He leaned back in his chair and simply said, “Ah.”  
  
“And he’s an FBI agent.”  
  
“Ah.” This time, Moz invested that single syllable with understanding. “You’re afraid that somehow you’ll get back on Matthew Keller’s radar, right? Well, trust me – that won’t happen.”  
  
Neal frowned. “No – that isn’t the reason.” That had never occurred to him. “I still don’t understand why won’t you tell me what you did to make Keller let me go?”  
  
“It’s called ‘plausible deniability,’ my friend. The less you know, the better off you are.”  
  
“Even now – eight years later?”  
  
Moz diverted him back to the problem at hand. “Tell me about this Suit – why are you frightened of him? Has he threatened you?”  
  
“No! It’s …” Neal felt himself flushing and was glad for the shadows. “He’s – they’ve been – perfect.”  
  
“Perfect?” One eyebrow went up.  
  
“They’re everything I’d ever want.”  
  
Mozzie blinked. “So what’s the problem?”  
  
“I’m terrified. What if I’m wrong about them, what if they’re just like Matthew Keller?”  
  
“Tell me, Neal – in the last eight years, have you been involved with anyone? Has there been anyone since Keller?”  
  
Neal opened his mouth; the words “Of course I have” were stuck on his tongue. That was a lie, certainly. “There have been people in my life,” was the best he could come up with.  
  
“But no one you’ve really cared about – no one who you wanted to share your life with, right?”  
  
Neal shook his head.  
  
“Maybe you’re not really afraid of them? Maybe you’re afraid of yourself? That you’re making the wrong choice again.”  
  
"You think I don't know that? That I have serious trust issues? That I'm afraid to enter into a meaningful relationship because I once made a terrible mistake?" Neal scrubbed at his face. "Did you ever think that I might have issues because I don't know what happened to Keller, that I'm worried that he's going to find me, he's going to hurt me again, hurt the people I've come to care for?" Neal realized he was shouting at Moz, venting years of worry, of shame.  
  
Moz took off his glasses and wiped them before carefully putting them back on. "Maybe you're right – maybe ignorance isn't bliss."  
  
"In this case, it never was." Neal sighed, calmer. "Tell me what happened."  
  
"After I put you in the cab, I went digging. You know how much I enjoy research."  
  
"Moz…"  
  
His friend smiled. "Even for an FBI agent, Matthew Keller was exceedingly dirty. He had fingers in several very sticky, very lucrative pies. It didn't take much to get some of the Russian wiseguys he was sweating to talk."  
  
"And you confronted Matthew with this? He could have killed you!" Neal breathed, shocked at the danger Moz put himself in.  
  
"Nah – he may have been corrupt, but he wasn't stupid. I told him that I had multiple failsafes set up – if I didn't call in, the complete file would be transmitted to OPR within the hour."  
  
"OPR?" Neal wasn't familiar with the term.  
  
"Office of Professional Responsibility – the FBI equivalent of Internal Affairs."  
  
"And that was enough to get Matthew off my back for good?" Neal was skeptical.  
  
"Well, I may have told Keller that the price of my silence was your freedom, but I am not such a Boy Scout. OPR had the file before I met with him. I suspect that your former boyfriend is doing very hard time in a solitary cell in a Federal Supermax."  
  
"Or the FBI could have simply swept the whole thing under the rug, and Keller's still out there," Neal replied, tone bleak.  
  
Moz split the last of the bottle between them. "I don't think so. But I could find out, if you want."  
  
Neal sipped and contemplated the offer. Instead of agreeing, he shocked himself, "I think I'd rather you turned your attentions to the Burkes."   
  
"Really? You want me to investigate your would-be lovers?"  
  
"I don't know if we'll ever get that far – but I need to know about Peter. I need to know if I'm right about him, if I can trust myself."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth was more than ready to put Neal Caffrey behind her. She had a glowing recommendation for a vet from Yvonne, her assistant. The doctor's office was just a few blocks south – within walking distance. Calling for an appointment was on her list of things to do this week.  
  
More important than a new veterinarian was the new opportunity that unexpectedly presented itself that afternoon.   
  
A former partner, Asher Ben-Gali was back in New York after a three-year stay in London. Their relationship with Asher was hard to describe: both casual and committed. There was an intensity to Asher that appealed more to Peter than to Elizabeth, but El couldn’t help but appreciate the man’s dedication to her husband. At the time, she had worried that Asher was a little too possessive to fit comfortably into their lives. But like the contradictory nature of their relationship, he was equally committed to his own career and was the one to make the break.  
  
When the opportunity to take over as executive chef at a highly rated London restaurant presented itself, the three of them amicably parted company. They had talked about getting together in England, but those plans never coalesced. Still, Asher remained close enough that when Peter was shot, he came back to New York to see them.  
  
Now, Asher was once again permanently based in New York. He had stopped by her office in lower Manhattan with an extravagant bouquet of tulips and dahlias and an invitation for her and Peter to dine at his chef’s table that Saturday night.  
  
“I’m not taking ‘No’ for an answer, Elizabeth.” Asher always called her Elizabeth, never El.   
  
“What if we already have plans for Saturday?”  
  
“You’ll just have to cancel them.” Asher grinned at her, mischief glinting in his eyes.  
  
“What if we wanted to bring a third? Is there room at the table?”  
  
The light dimmed, just a little. “I hadn’t heard that you’re involved with anyone. Not since Peter was shot.”  
  
“You’ve been keeping up with all the local news?”  
  
“You would have told me if there was someone new in your life.” And then Asher seemed a little less confident. “Wouldn’t you?”  
  
El smiled, relenting. “Yes, I would have. And no, right now, there isn’t anyone else.”  
  
“But at one point, there might have been?”  
  
She shrugged, unwilling to say anything more. The abortive relationship with Neal, his inexplicable avoidance of them was still surprisingly painful. Maybe it was the lack of closure. “I’ll tell Peter that you’re back, and that you’ve reserved the best seats in the house for us. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have dinner at your new place.”  
  
Asher kissed her, first on both her cheeks in the Continental fashion, then he tilted her chin up, smiled and swooped in for a light but passionate kiss.  
  
It was a good kiss, a little playful, a little masterful, intense enough to set the blood thrumming in her veins. Asher stepped back and smiled. “I’ve missed that.”  
  
She wanted to say, ‘Me, too” but the words weren’t there. Instead, she smiled back and shooed him out of her office.   
  
He left with a jaunty little bow and El stood there, bemused and amused. She wondered if she should call Peter now or wait until she got home tonight to tell him.  
  
A panicked client made the decision for her, and the rest of the afternoon was spent reorganizing the seating arrangements for three hundred wedding guests. It was close to six by the time she locked the door behind her and called Peter to ask what he wanted for dinner.  
  
“I’m too exhausted to cook, hon. You have a choice of takeout. Italian, Chinese or Thai, again.”  
  
 _“Had the leftover Thai for lunch and Chinese …”_ Peter made that noncommittal sound that meant ‘I’ll have Chinese if that’s what you really want.’  
  
“How does Chicken Marsala and a Caprese salad from _La Donna Bella_ with a nice red wine sound?”  
  
 _“Delicious. But I think we finished the last bottle of red the other night.”_  
  
“Not a problem, there’s a liquor store a few doors down from the restaurant. I’ll pick up something.”  
  
Peter said he’d call in their order and disconnected, leaving her alone with her thoughts. They circled not so much around Asher but on the imaginary conversation she wanted to have with Neal Caffrey. She knew she was being ridiculous, obsessing over him like a spurned teenage girl, but she couldn’t help it. Thoughts of Neal and what she’d say to him if she ever saw him again followed her out of the city and across the bridge, circling around her brain as she circled the block, looking for a parking spot.  
  
There was one, right between the wine store and the restaurant. _Perfect_. She picked up dinner and put it in the car before going to get the wine.  
  
El deliberately put the thoughts of Neal out of her head and concentrated on finding a nice red to go with their dinner. She would have been successful, except for an all-too familiar voice in the next aisle.  
  
 _“Moz – you opened my last bottle of Brunello, you’re going to replace it.”_  
  
The reply was slightly nasal and slightly offended. _“And you drank about half of what was left.”  
  
“You let yourself into my house and you opened a hundred dollar bottle of wine. That takes balls.”  
  
“And I was only there because you asked me to come.”_  
  
Unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, El walked around the display of mid-priced Spanish reds to find Neal and the man he was complaining to. “Neal?”  
  
His immediate expression was one of surprised pleasure, and Elizabeth might have taken encouragement from that, except that it was quickly schooled into bland disinterest.   
  
“Ah, hi – Elizabeth.”  
  
They stood there awkwardly, until El remembered that she wanted to give Neal a piece of her mind. “You never called.”  
  
The man shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.  
  
“You’ve been dodging us.”  
  
Neal must have found the pattern in the store’s worn linoleum floor fascinating, because he wouldn’t look up from it. His friend, though, looked keenly interested.  
  
El was embarrassed now. “Why? Were we too much? Did we offend you? Peter and I thought …” Her voice trailed off, she stood there, on the verge of tears.  
  
Neal finally replied. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have left you hanging. You see, I …” Neal grimaced, he still wouldn’t meet her eyes. He looked to his friend and bit his lip before continuing. “You see –Mozzie here – he just came back to town. He and I, we’re … well, together.” As if to prove his point, Neal took the older man’s hand and planted a gentle kiss on the back of it.   
  
The man pulled his hand free and glared at Neal.  
  
Elizabeth blinked and nodded. Okay, if this was how Neal wanted to play it that was fine with her. She started to walk away. Then turned back, because it wasn’t fine and it wasn’t okay. She was going to have her say and then it would be done.  
  
“You know, Neal – it’s a good thing you have someone else, because you’re not what Peter and I need in our lives.” Her tone was cutting, she hoped she drew blood. “We don’t ask much of our partners, but we do expect one thing – honesty, which is something you seem incapable of providing.”  
  
El lifted her chin and delivered her _coup de grâce_. “We don’t need a coward in our lives, either.” She turned on her heel and walked out.  
  


  
 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

  
  
Throughout the darkest of days with Keller, suffering through his verbal and physical abuse, Neal had never felt quite so eviscerated. Elizabeth’s words cut him to ribbons. Not because they were cruel, but because they were the truth.  
  
“Wow.” That was Moz’s comment. A universe of appreciation wrapped up in one neat syllable.  
  
“Yeah.” Neal stared at the door, as if he could still see the elements of matter that comprised Elizabeth Burke, force of nature.  
  
By tacit admission, neither man said anything more. Mozzie grabbed not only the replacement Brunello, but two magnums of Shiraz and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. It was going to be a long night.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had set the table, fed Satchmo, and was working on the last remaining clues in the Sunday Times crossword puzzle when Elizabeth came through the front door like a summer storm.  
  
She thrust the bag from _La Donna Bella_ at him and ran up to their bedroom. Peter thought he saw tear stains on her cheeks. He put the bag on the table and followed her upstairs, worried. Elizabeth was not a woman to indulge in hysterics.  
  
The bedroom door was shut and he could hear the sound of her weeping. Ugly, jagged breaths, deep sniffles – not the sounds he was accustomed to hearing from his wife. As much as he was uncomfortable with crying women, he wasn’t going to let his wife weep her heart out alone. Someone hurt her, someone made her cry, and someone was going to pay for that.  
  
He opened the door and found El stretched out across their bed, sobbing. He sat down next to her, carefully stroking her hair. “Hon, what happened?”  
  
She sat up, looked at him with drowned eyes and flung herself into his arms, still crying.  
  
“Hey, hey.”  
  
She clung to him and he rocked her back and forth, hoping to soothe her.   
  
Eventually, words starting pouring out.  
  
“Asher – he’s back. Dinner –Saturday. He kissed me.” El wailed. “I liked it – but – but.” Then the hiccoughing started. “Neal – wished it was Neal…”  
  
Peter kept rocking her, rubbing a calming hand up and down her back.   
  
“Asher, he wants us back and I – I – I – I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“El?” He really couldn’t understand why she was so upset about Asher. He had been a pleasant addition to their lives and when things ended, they had parted under good terms. There was nothing about Asher to give her so much grief and pain.  
  
She sniffled, wiping at her nose and eyes like a child. “I stopped to pick up a bottle of wine. Neal was there.”  
  
 _Ah._  
  
“Did you talk to him?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I did.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He was with someone – they seemed like old friends.”  
  
“Just friends?”   
  
“Neal wanted me to believe that he was involved with this man – that was why he hadn’t called. But it was a lie. I could tell.”  
  
“Ah, hon. I’m sorry, so very sorry.” Peter felt like it was his fault. Had he not mentioned Neal to Elizabeth all those weeks ago, maybe this never would have happened. “I’m so sorry he hurt you.”  
  
They clung to each other, consoling themselves.  
  
El finally pulled away, the storm had passed. “I called him a liar and a coward. I told him we deserved better than that.”  
  
Peter was never as proud of Elizabeth as he was at this moment. “We do, we most certainly do.” He kissed her gently and she relaxed in his arms. “Now, tell me about Asher.”  
  
“He’s back in New York, he’s opened a new restaurant in Tribeca, I think.” El fished through her pockets and came up with a card, _BBG – Brasserie Ben-Gali_.” He wants us to be his first guests at his chef’s table on Saturday night.”  
  
“And he wants to pick things up where we left them three years ago?” Peter didn’t know how he felt about that.  
  
“He kissed me.” El snuggled against his shoulder.   
  
“Asher does know how to kiss.” That had always been a particular pleasure.  
  
“Do you want to have dinner with him?” El looked up, there was a touch of reluctance in her eyes.  
  
“Maybe.” He thought about it. “No, not maybe. No – I don’t.”  
  
El sighed, relief in that exhalation. “I don’t think I want to get involved with him again. I mean, I like Asher, and he could be part of our lives again…”  
  
“But he’s our past, not our future.” Peter finished the thought.   
  
El pulled herself out of Peter’s arms and looked at him, her eyes were grave. “I think I want to keep you to myself for a little while longer. Are you okay with that?”  
  
He cupped her cheeks, wiping away the tear stains. “I am absolutely okay with that.” He kissed her again, just as gently, and then deepened it. El responded to his ardor with her own passion. Hands scrambled at clothes, they both needed to feel skin against skin. Peter kissed his way down her throat, resting for a moment at the sweet spot at the base of her neck, before finding her magnificent breasts. Her sobs, this time, were of pure pleasure.   
  
Dinner, the dog, the world and all its problems, were forgotten in this moment of love.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
There was a sealed manila envelope waiting for him on the dining room table when he got home from work, and no sign of Moz. That didn’t surprise Neal. They had spent most of the night before drinking, making their way through the better part of both magnums of Shiraz. Moz was probably sleeping it off in the guest bedroom. He’d come down eventually, or when dinner was in the works. Neal had early office hours and only made it through his own day with the help of large and frequent doses of caffeine and aspirin.  
  
He picked up the envelope and turned it over and over. Moz couldn’t have been that hung over if he was able to deliver this. Neal was tempted to use it as kindling, though. What was the point in reading a report about Special Agent Peter Burke? Whatever chance he had with the man – with the man and his wife – was gone.  
  
Elizabeth made that perfectly clear. They didn’t want a liar and a coward in their lives. Neal may not have lied to them (well, that stunt with Mozzie aside), but he was a coward. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell them ‘no, thanks’.   
  
He had been a fool. Of course Peter Burke was good and honorable, he’d never hurt him. It was as obvious as the color of his eyes. He treated his dog well – better than well. He treated his dog like he was a part of his family.  
  
In all the years he’d been a practicing veterinarian and in the years of study before, Neal had never seen a good person treat an animal badly. If Peter was anything like Keller, Satchmo would have been a shaking, whimpering wreck of a dog. But he wasn’t – he was open-hearted and gregarious – like his owners.  
  
Neal put the envelope down. There was nothing in there that he didn’t already know about Peter Burke. He didn't turn around at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.  
  
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Your Suit's the poster-child for ‘Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity’. He probably helps little old ladies across the street, volunteers at soup kitchens and gives directions to tourists. Plus, he’s got an exceedingly hot wife.”  
  
“Moz –” Neal didn’t care for his friend’s snark.  
  
“It’s the truth, Neal. Elizabeth Burke is hot."   
  
“Enough, Moz. Just. Enough.”  
  
Moz caught the hint and started fussing with the blinds. Almost August and the days were getting perceptively shorter. It was hard to believe that it had been more than a month since his dinner with Peter and Elizabeth.   
  
“So, what are you going to do?”  
  
Neal shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. There’s nothing to do, not anymore.”  
  
“You could apologize, you know. Maybe explain things.” Mozzie’s tone was gentle.  
  
“What’s the point?”  
  
“The point is you deserve some happiness in your life. Maybe they can help you find it.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had an appointment with a Bureau shrink at the Federal Building; it was part of his recertification process. It would be a mistake to say he coasted through the interview, the trauma of such a serious on-the-job injury still lingered. The doctor’s questions probed and picked at things that Peter had thought he was long past, digging at lingering resentments and fears.  
  
He wondered what the report was going to say, if he would be allowed to return to active duty without extensive psychological therapy. He was still months away from field work, but he was getting to the point where he should be allowed back on desk duty, running ops, surveillance work. It had been close to a year since his shooting and he wanted to get the rest of his life back.  
  
The psychologist's office was on the thirty-eighth floor, and Peter was tempted to press the button for the White Collar offices on the twenty-first. Just to stop by and say hello. He didn’t give into temptation, though. Everything was too uncertain. His lieutenants, Diana and Clinton, had been frequent visitors, during his time in the hospital, during his stay at rehab, and even after he got home. They were always quick to reassure him that his entire staff was anxious for his return.  
  
Hughes, his boss, was still filling in for him, but Peter knew that the more time that passed, the less likely that he’d be given his old post back. He didn’t want to start with a new team, a new brief, but he might not have much of a choice. It was easier to leave without seeing anyone, without getting his hopes up.  
  
Peter still had a few hours until he was supposed to meet El and head home. Tribeca was not that far from the Federal Building, and maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to go see Asher.   
  
_Brasserie Ben-Gali_ was an easy ten minute walk from the office, and Peter was pleased to find the front door open. A server greeted him apologetically. "We're not open for business yet; would you like to make a reservation?"  
  
"I'm looking for Asher Ben-Gali, is he in?"  
  
The young man smiled. "Chef Ben-Gali is in the kitchen, may I give him your name?"  
  
Peter smiled back - trust Asher to hire an attractive and well-trained staff. "Peter Burke, I'm an old friend."  
  
The server directed him to a small table near the bar and waved over another member of the staff. "Would you care for an espresso while you wait?"  
  
Peter accepted the offer, and a tiny, perfect cup was quickly delivered. He enjoyed it enough to hope that another would be offered, except that Asher burst out of the kitchen, a wide grin on his face.  
  
Peter stood up to greet his former lover and was wrapped in an enthusiastic bear hug.   
  
"For a man that was on death's door not so long ago, you look fabulous." Asher hugged him again, this time grabbing his face and planting an equally enthusiastic kiss on his lips. Yes, Asher Ben-Gali still knew how to kiss, and Peter wasn't unmoved. He still carefully extricated himself from Asher's embrace.  
  
The man gave him a knowing look before pulling him towards the back of the restaurant. "Come – let's talk in private."   
  
Asher's office was much like the man, a combination of extravagance and discipline. He sat and waited while Asher poured himself a glass of wine. "You still prefer cheap beer, I presume?"  
  
"Yes, some things will never change. And it's a little too early for me, anyway."  
  
Asher sat next to him on the wide leather couch. "So, Peter Burke."  
  
"So, Asher Ben-Gali." Two could play this game.  
  
They stared at each other, and Asher was the first to break. "I'm to gather that you're here to tell me that you and Elizabeth will not be coming to dinner on Saturday night?"   
  
Peter was surprised at Asher's perceptiveness. "Yes - but how did you know?"  
  
Asher took a sip of wine and looked at Peter over the rim of his glasses. "It may be three years since we shared a life, but some things never change. You're a man who always wants to do right by people. I've always found that endearing, especially for an FBI agent."  
  
Peter felt himself blushing.  
  
"If you and Elizabeth were going to accept my invitation, you simply would have shown up on Saturday night. I'm sure that your lovely wife told you that I kissed her, and that I subtly expressed an intention of picking up where we left off."  
  
"Given our history, and your … intentions … I thought it best to talk to you face-to-face. You deserved more than a phone call." Peter couldn't help but recognize the irony.  
  
Asher acknowledged the courtesy, and added, "I get the feeling that there's someone else."   
  
Peter sighed. "There might have been, but not anymore."  
  
"Then why not come to dinner on Saturday?" Asher didn't have to add, "And then join me in bed."  
  
"Because we don't want to lead you on. El and I - it's been a rough year for us and we just want to take the time for ourselves."  
  
"But you _were_ interested in someone new?"  
  
The man was like a dog with a bone. "Yes, but it's not happening. He's not interested in us and there's no point in pursuing it."   
  
"The man's a fool." Asher grimaced and shook his head. "Are you two sure you couldn’t go for something casual?" He even fluttered his eyelashes  
  
Peter had to give him high marks for persistence. "You're not made for casual, Asher Ben-Gali. You're like …" He reached for the best analogy, "A bottle of very fine wine. You are meant to be savored and lingered over."  
  
"That is the nicest rejection I've ever received." Asher leaned over and kissed Peter again, a sweet, lingering gesture. "And you're still one of the best men I've ever met. This man who turned you down doesn't know what he's missing."  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
It took Neal the better part of two days to make up his mind about going to see the Burkes.   
  
The inner coward, the man damaged by years of fear and abuse, insisted that it was best to leave things as they were. Elizabeth Burke was right; he had no place in their lives. And he was better off not getting involved like that.   
  
But Neal Caffrey, the man who wanted to stop running from the shadows, the man who needed to put down roots and make a real life for himself, the man who kissed both of the Burkes on their front steps, didn’t want to leave things as they were.  
  
The odds were poor that either Peter or Elizabeth would be willing to talk to him, to listen to what he had to say. After all, he had run from Peter, he dodged Elizabeth, and humiliated all of them by trying to explain away his bad behavior with a false relationship. He wasn’t exactly the type of person anyone would want to be involved with, least of all two people with such strong, centered lives.  
  
“You never know unless you try, _mon frère_ ”, was Mozzie’s advice. “The worst that could happen is they slam the door shut in your face.”  
  
Neal flinched at the thought.  
  
“At least you’ll know where you stand.”  
  
He continued to dither, caught between the nightmare of his past and the uncertainty of a future he may have lost.  
  
Moz, slightly disgusted at Neal, told him he was heading out of town for a few days. There was a thing in Boston that interested him. What that thing was, Moz wouldn’t say, but Neal woke on Saturday morning to an empty house. The still-unopened manila envelope was on the dining room table, but next to it was a bottle of ’82 Bordeaux – a very expensive gift. There was a note propped up against the bottle.  
  


_Neal –_

_These people, the Burkes – they are like this wine – the very finest. Life isn’t worth living without some risk. I’ll always be here for you if you need my help, but in this case, I don’t think you will._

_Moz_

  
  
For the better part of the day, Neal busied himself with paperwork in the office, with the stuff that needed to be done for the business he was running. He took a great deal of pride and pleasure in seeing the numbers tally strongly in the black, but that enjoyment faded when he came across a note from Donna letting him know that the Burkes had requested that Satchmo’s file be transferred to another vet’s office.  
  
He scrubbed at his face, hiding his burning eyes in his palms. He could see Peter Burke – the moment when they met – he could feel that instant attraction. Elizabeth was there, in his memories, too. Beautiful, strong, and so damn angry.   
  
It was a little after four when he left the office. He left fresh food and water for the Demon Creature. They had come to terms – Neal didn’t try to pet her and she stopped biting his ankles. Locking the door behind him, Neal again felt that burst of pride. This was his place, his life. No one was going to take it away from him.  
  
He walked home, and instead of going out of his way to avoid the Burkes’ house, he went past it without pausing. Then stopped and turned around.  
  
No – he wasn’t ready. Not yet.   
  
As he finished his walk home, Neal castigated himself for his cowardice. Tonight – he’d shower and change and go over to talk with them tonight. It would be up to them if they wanted to listen.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Instead of dining on perfectly cooked and presented food at Asher’s chef’s table, Peter and Elizabeth ate cold salad and leftovers.  
  
“Any regrets?” Peter poured her a glass of wine – the chardonnay wasn’t the best pairing – but it was what they had.  
  
“No, not really. Asher’s still a friend, but like you said the other night, he’s our past. We should concentrate on the future.”  
  
Peter leaned over and kissed her. She was still his miracle.   
  
It was too nice of an evening to spend indoors, even though the Yankees were playing, and El suggested that they take Satchmo for a long walk. The dog, hearing his name and the word “walk” in such close conjunction, jumped up and beat them to the door. He sat there, panting and whining impatiently.  
  
“Okay, boy – give us a moment.” Peter had to laugh, their dog had _them_ very well trained. El slipped on her sneakers and he grabbed his wallet and keys and clipped Satch’s leash on.  
  
It was a typical summer evening in Brooklyn and the street was filled with children and adults, many with strollers, even more with dogs. Satchmo made nice with a few of the more familiar neighborhood canines – they were forced to frequently pause for ritual butt-sniffing. They reached their favorite dog-friendly park and let Satchmo off his lead for a short romp before heading home. Peter was debating with himself about walking to the other end of the block, where an ice cream truck was parked, when Satch started barking and pulling at the leash.  
  
There was someone sitting on their front steps, someone Satchmo clearly liked. Someone Peter never expected to see.  
  
Neal Caffrey.  
  
His dog, completely oblivious to his owners’ dismay, just about yanked Peter off his feet to get to Neal.  
  
“Hey, boy.” Neal bent down to pet Satchmo, who was wriggling in delirious joy, licking Neal’s face, all but climbing into his arms.   
  
Peter felt the chill coming off of Elizabeth; it mirrored his own anger. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Neal stood up, and Peter pulled Satchmo’s leash taut enough that his dog was forced to heel. That didn’t stop him from whining and carrying on.  
  
“I – I hoped we could talk.” Neal looked from him to El, who froze him out.  
  
“I’ve already said all I have to say.” She pointedly looked away. “But if Peter wants to listen to you, I’m not going to stop him.” She pried Satchmo’s leash out of his hand and gave it a sharp yank. “We’re going to walk a little more.” El all but marched away, Satchmo reluctantly following – looking back at Neal, at Peter like he was never going to see them again.  
  
They stood there, and Peter grudgingly gestured for Neal to come inside. He went out to the patio and sat down. Neal followed.   
  
He waited, he wasn’t going to make this easy on Neal; he and Elizabeth had been too badly hurt.  
  
“I know I owe you both an apology. My behavior was appalling.”  
  
Peter nodded, the slightest of gestures. He wasn’t yet ready to accept an apology, which technically had not yet been given.  
  
Neal looked at his hands as the seconds accumulated to minutes. He finally squared his shoulders and looked up, into Peter’s eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to be afraid, to live in fear?”  
  
The question surprised him, but Peter answered. “Yes, I do.”  
  
A slight smile twisted Neal’s lips. “Ah, yes – when you were shot. You were afraid you were going to die.”  
  
"Yes."   
  
“But have you ever been afraid you were going to live?” Neal shook his head, as if to answer his own question. “Of course not.”  
  
Now Peter was truly puzzled. “What do you mean - afraid to live?”  
  
“Remember, when we were walking that night, when I told you I was in a difficult relationship?”  
  
“Yes.” He was suddenly, terribly sure where this was going, but he let Neal continue.  
  
“Difficult really is such a bland term. One of those weasel words that you see in press releases when businesses talk about their problems: ‘Acme Widgets has experienced difficulty in meeting their sales quota.’ The word is so ubiquitous that it’s meaningless, now.” He paused, seemingly lost in thought.  
  
Peter waited for Neal to continue.  
  
“I was young, stupid, naïve. I was lonely and I thought … I thought. Hell, I don’t know what I thought. He was good to me – in the beginning. It was so nice to be wanted like that, to be the focus of someone’s whole being.”   
  
Peter watched Neal, watched him transform from a self-assured man to someone filled with terrible pain. He ached and listened.  
  
“I should have realized what was happening, but I was too damn blind.”  
  
Peter could see what was going to happen.  
  
"It didn't take much to isolate me, to cut me off from everything. My mother had died a few months before. My best friend was gone – traveling in Europe. It was the first time I was truly on my own.”  
  
“You were vulnerable.”  
  
“And Matthew saw that. I was fresh meat and he was like a hyena, waiting to pounce. It was just a month before he asked me to move in with him. It was just a few weeks later before I was living with him, letting him dictate my every move.”  
  
“He hurt you.” That wasn’t a question.  
  
“It was another few months before that started. And then it didn’t stop.”  
  
“Why didn’t you leave?” Peter didn't ask that question, Elizabeth did. He hadn’t heard her come outside. Neal looked surprised, too. She repeated her question, as relentless as an FBI interrogator.  
  
“I thought I loved him, and then I thought he’d kill me.”   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal knew, intellectually, that this confession - this retelling of his shameful life - wasn't going to be easy. Even if he could get past the shame, hearing his own words was sickening. Seeing their effect on the Burkes was worse. He wasn't surprised that Peter made the connection so quickly, he was smart. And worse, compassionate. Neal hated that compassion.  
  
Elizabeth's anger was easier. It was earned, and he expected it. He could understand it. He deserved it. And yet, she surprised him, sitting next to him on the lounger. The anger that was so manifest on the street seemed tempered by a cautious understanding.  
  
He wiped his palms on his pants, digging his nails into his thighs, holding himself together. She shocked him again as she rested a hand on top of his, gently uncurling his fingers.  
  
Peter asked, "How long were you with him?"  
  
"Over two years. But it wasn't so bad at first." God, he sounded so pathetic. “He didn't start hitting me until we were together for a few months, not until I moved in with him."   
  
Peter and El didn't say a word. This was his story and they were letting him tell it at his own pace.  
  
"He was always sorry afterwards, at least in the beginning. He'd promise that it would never happen again. He'd be so sweet, until it happened again. We'd go out sometimes - not often. He wouldn't like how I looked at a server, if I smiled too much. Sometimes it would start before we left the restaurant - he'd tell me how stupid I was, how I couldn't even pick out the right tie or the right wine. He'd point out something I did wrong and announce it to the entire restaurant. Or he'd make me spill something and then _I_ had to get up and apologize.  
  
"I became a nervous wreck. Unless I was going to class, I didn't want to leave the apartment. But I couldn't stand to be there, either."  
  
Neal felt himself shaking at the memory. "You asked me, Elizabeth, why I stayed with someone so terrible?"   
  
"You said you were afraid for your life." Peter answered. There was no judgment in his tone and the very coolness helped Neal go on.  
  
"Can you understand something so contradictory? I stayed with someone who beat and raped me on a regular basis because I was afraid he'd kill me if I did leave."  
  
It was Elizabeth who asked the fatal question. "Why didn't you go to the police?"  
  
Neal had to laugh, and the sound was like someone had ripped something out of him. "If I went to the police, all Matthew had to do was flash his badge and they'd go away. Even in New York City, where they take domestic abuse between gay partners a little more seriously, the police are still reluctant to interfere when one of the men carries a gold shield."  
  
"Matthew was a detective?" Now Peter's question had some heat.  
  
In a way, it was as if everything that had happened, every interaction and every moment of avoidance between him and Peter and Elizabeth Burke had been leading up to this moment. "No, Matthew was an FBI Agent. He worked - hell, maybe he still works - in the Bureau's Organized Crime division."  
  
Neal kept his eyes on Peter's face, even as he felt Elizabeth's hand hold his just that much tighter.   
  
Even in the deepening shadows, it wasn't hard to see Peter's reaction - shock, horror, even a touch of shame.   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter was a man who prided himself on his ability to observe and correlate human behavior, to draw connections, form theories that more often than not proved to be highly accurate. At one point, early in his career, he considered applying for a spot with the FBI’s Behavior Analysis Unit – to become a profiler.  
  
Once, a suspect – a con artist he had chased for the better part of three years – paid him a dubious compliment, telling Peter that it was a pity he carried a badge. He was the best social engineer the man had ever met.  
  
But learning that Neal’s abusive partner was an FBI agent just blindsided him.   
  
It also explained everything. Neal’s obvious disgust when he had told him he was an FBI agent, his reluctance to get involved despite the attraction, his fear and avoidance these past few weeks. It all added up.  
  
He couldn’t leave it there. "What was his name – his full name?"  
  
"Matthew Keller. Do you know him?" Neal’s question was almost innocent in its curiosity.  
  
Peter could never forget the feeling of the first bullet that hit him – high on the chest. The Kevlar vest had slowed the bullet down, it would have killed him otherwise, but the impact was staggering, knocking him back, stealing his breath. Hearing Matthew Keller’s name drop from Neal’s lips was like that hit.  
  
He swallowed, trying to find his voice. “Yes.”  
  
“How?”   
  
For a second or two, Peter considered telling Neal that he didn’t have the authority to give him that information, and it would have been the truth. Looking at Neal, seeing the courage it took for him to tell him about his past, what he suffered, made that obscuration intolerable.  
  
“Was he the man who shot you?”  
  
“No, no.” Peter wished he had a bottle of beer, a glass of wine, or even a cup of coffee. Something to hide behind. “Matthew Keller was a street agent working under cover.”  
  
Neal nodded.  
  
“For a year, I was his handler.”  
  
Neal’s eyes went wide. “Small world.”  
  
Peter couldn’t disagree. “It was a long time ago – probably even before he met you.” He looked at El, who was still holding Neal’s hand. She knew this story, the whole disgraceful tale.  
  
“I met Matthew over a decade ago.”  
  
Peter breathed a small sigh of relief. “My responsibility for Agent Keller was terminated thirteen years ago.”  
  
“Terminated?”  
  
“I always had reservations about Matthew Keller. I didn’t like the way he worked, he cut corners; there were always small complaints about him. His attitude was respectful enough, but I could never shake the feeling that he held everyone and everything in contempt.”  
  
“That sounds like the man I knew.”  
  
“After one of our regular meetings, I tailed Keller for a few hours. I observed him becoming violent with a sex worker.”  
  
“Sex worker? You mean prostitute?”   
  
“I don’t like labels like that. And the boy was barely legal. Keller …” The memory of what he had done to that kid still revolted Peter. The thought of Neal being victimized like that made it even worse. “I had the kid taken to the hospital, I called in the SVU, but the boy wouldn’t make a complaint – he was too scared.”  
  
“What did you do?” Neal leaned forward, his eyes glued to Peter’s.  
  
“I reported it to my superiors. They did nothing. Keller was too effective an agent – he was working his way up, into a key position with one of the Russian mobs. The Bureau couldn’t risk pulling him out. I was transferred out of Organized Crime, into the White Collar division. Keller was given another handler, one who would turn a blind eye to his crimes.”  
  
In the telling, Peter realized something terrible. “If I had made a bigger issue out of it, if I pressed the issue instead of taking the transfer – he never would have had the chance to hurt you.”  
  
Elizabeth, who’d been Neal’s silent support throughout this, got up and wrapped her arms around him. “No – no, you can’t think that.”  
  
“Elizabeth’s right. You did what you could.”  
  
“Neal –”  
  
Neal reached out and took his hand. “As my friend Moz might say, coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.”  
  
Elizabeth asked, “Moz? The guy from the wine store?”  
  
“Yeah. He has a special fondness for Einstein.”  
  
“But still…” Peter couldn’t shake the guilt.  
  
“It doesn’t matter – not now. Not anymore.”  
  
He supposed he should agree.  
  
“Do you know where Matthew Keller is?” Neal’s question was as freighted as his own, when he asked for his abuser’s name.   
  
Peter shouldn’t have been surprised at the question, and he took little joy in answering it. “In a plot in Hillside Cemetery, in Queens. He died while in custody at the Manhattan Correctional Facility.”  
  
“He was in jail?”   
  
“Yeah. It seems that I wasn’t the only person concerned about Matthew Keller. About eight years ago, a rather detailed file on the life and crimes of Special Agent Matthew Keller was anonymously delivered to the Assistant Director for Office of Professional Responsibility, with copies to the heads of every department in the New York field office, and the Director and his immediate reports in D.C. I was called in – seconded to OPR because of my history with Keller.”  
  
There was something in Neal’s posture – a sudden rigidness – that made Peter wonder just what he knew about this. He didn’t ask – it was ancient history and there were things that Peter knew he was better off not knowing.   
  
“It didn’t take long to bring Keller down. Not with the evidence that we had received on his activities. The son of a bitch was working with one of the largest of Russian mobs on the East Coast – using his badge to protect their operations while setting other gangs up for prosecution. He was helping them consolidate their hold on the heroin trade. And yet, for all his contempt of the system, he flipped on his ‘partners’ before the AUSA could finish outlining the charges. He was put in protective custody, but he never testified at trial. Keller was found hanging in his cell a few days before he was to be transferred to a Federal penitentiary.”  
  
Peter noticed his hands were shaking. He was part of the team who had helped collect Keller’s body. Neal didn’t have to know that Keller wasn’t hung using his bed sheets, but his own esophagus.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal used to imagine what it would be like to find out that he had nothing to fear from Matthew Keller ever again. He thought he would be filled with joy, elation, a lightness of being. Maybe that would come later. Right now, beyond the immediate relief of knowing that Matthew Keller couldn’t harm him anymore was the sick realization that that was a lie.   
  
From the grave, Matthew still had the power to damage him.  
  
“Are you okay?” Elizabeth, who had been so angry, who had been his rock when he was pouring out the bitter, squalid tale of his life, reached out to him with all the love and affection that he was still so terrified to accept.  
  
“Yeah. I think so.” He stood up, he wanted to go. He never wanted to leave. Neal looked from Elizabeth to Peter. “I am still sorry for my behavior – you didn’t deserve that.” He turned to leave. “I should go.”  
  
“We understand now.” Peter stood up too, hands in his pockets, a sad, accepting expression on his face. “ _I_ understand – you don’t want to get involved with an FBI agent.” Peter looked so dejected, so heartbroken.  
  
There was one final admission – the hardest one of all. “No, Peter. You don’t understand. I’m not afraid of you. I know you – you and Elizabeth – would never harm me. I knew it from the moment we met. If I told myself that I was afraid you were like Matthew, it was my own hypocrisy. I wasn’t afraid of you, I was afraid of myself.”  
  
“Neal?” The way Peter said his name sent a terrible thrill of longing through him.  
  
“Have you ever wanted something so much that you were afraid of what would happen if you finally got it? I wanted you – I _want_ you so much that it terrifies me. I know you aren’t Matthew – I know you’d never lift a hand to me; you’d never belittle or humiliate me. I know to the last measure that you’d move heaven and earth to make me happy.” He was looking at Peter, but speaking to both.   
  
“And that’s what frightens you? Happiness?” Elizabeth, in her wisdom, saw his fear.  
  
He nodded. “And the loss of control.” There, the final, final admission.  
  
“You need a way out.” Peter understood, too. Those eyes saw everything; there was nothing left to hide.  
  
“Yeah.” And then it occurred to him that Peter was using the present tense, that there was an offer in those five words. He licked his lips, shocked and excited. Maybe he hadn’t wrecked everything. “If I knew I could leave, maybe I wouldn’t want to. Maybe I’d stay.” This feeling, so unfamiliar, was like champagne in his veins. He stepped closer to the Burkes, close enough to feel the warmth of their skin.  
  
Elizabeth touched him again, her hand soft and strong against his cheek. “How about this: if you say it’s over, it’s over.”  
  
Peter added, “You can leave any time you want. Just tell us – don’t disappear.” He touched him, too. Neal wanted to lean into him, to shelter himself against the other man’s strength, so he did.   
  
Surrounded by their warmth, their affection, and what he hoped was a burgeoning love, Neal replied, “Yes, if I say it’s over, it’s over. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try and convince me to stay.”  
  


_FIN_

 


End file.
